THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  DAUGHTER 
OF  ANDERSON  CROW 


BY 

GEORGE  BARR  McCUTCHEON 

Author  of 
"Beverly  of  Graustark,"  "Jane  Cable,"  etc. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 

B.  MARTIN  JUSTICE 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,   MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1907 


COPYRIGHT,    1907 
By  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

Published  September,    1907 
All  Rights  Reserved 


5 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  pAGF 

I     ANDERSON  CROW,   DETECTIVE  j 

II     THE   PURSUIT   BEGINS 

14 

III  THE  CULPRITS  2)- 

IV  ANDERSON  RECTIFIES  AN  ERROR  26 
V     THE   BABE  ON  THE  DOORSTEP  40 

VI     REFLECTION  AND  DEDUCTION  61 

VII     THE  MYSTERIOUS  VISITOR  68 

VIII     SOME   YEARS  Go  BY  yr 

IX     THE  VILLAGE  QUEEN  84 

X     ROSALIE  HAS  PLANS  OF  HER  OWN  01 

XI      ELSIE   BANKS  qg 

XII     THE  SPELLING-BEE  loy 

XIII  A    TlNKLETOWN     SENSATION  I  I  c 

XIV  A  CASE  OF  MISTAKEN  IDENTITY  124 
XV      ROSALIE  DISAPPEARS  121 

XVI      THE  HAUNTED   HOUSE  143 

XVII      WICKER   BONNER,   HARVARD  154 

XVIII     THE   MEN  IN  THE  SLEIGK  165 

XIX     WITH  THE  KIDNAPERS  173 

XX     IN  THE  CAVE  183 

XXI     THE  TRAP-DOOR  192 

XXII     JACK,   THE  GIANT  KILLER  iqo, 

XXIII  TINKLETOWN'S   CONVULSION  208 

XXIV  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  KIDNAPERS  217 


1495789 


VI 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

XXV  As  THE  HEART  GROWS  OLDER 

XXVI  THE  LEFT  VENTRICLE 

XXVII  THE  GRIN  DERISIVE 

XXVIII  THE  BLIND  MAN'S  EYES 

XXIX  THE  MYSTERIOUS  QUESTIONER 

XXX  THE  HEMISPHERE  TRAIN  ROBBERY 

XXXI  "As  You  LIKE  IT" 

XXXII  THE  LUCK  OF  ANDERSON  CROW 

XXXIII  BILL  BRIGGS  TELLS  A  TALE 

XXXIV  ELSIE  BANKS  RETURNS 
XXXV  THE  STORY  is  TOLD 

XXXVI  ANDERSON   CROW'S  RESIGNATION 


227 
236 
245 

255 
263 

273 
285 

297 
309 
319 
33° 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Anderson  Crow  Frontispiece 

"  'Safe  for  a  minute  or  two  at  least,'  he  whispered"   Facing  page     28 

"A  baby,  alive  and  warm,  lay  packed  in  the  blankets"  "  "        54 

"September  brought  Elsie  Banks"  "  "       96 

"  The  teacher  was  amazingly  pretty  on  this  eventful 

night"  "  "     no 

"  '  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  '  "  *'  "126 

The  haunted  house  "  "      146 

Wicker  Bonner  "  "     156 

"  Rosalie  was  no  match  for  the  huge  woman  "  "  "     174 

"  She  shrank  back  from  another  blow  which  seemed 

impending"  "  "     184 

"Left   the   young   man  to  the  care  of  an  excellent 

nurse"  "  "     222 

"  '  I  think  I  understand,  Rosalie'1  "  "     252 

"  '  I  beg  your  pardon,'  he  said  humbly  "  "  "     260 

"  It  was  a  wise,  discreet  old  oak  "  '*  "270 

"  The  huge  automobile  had  struck  the  washout"  "  "     304 


THE    DAUGHTER   OF 
ANDERSON  CROW 

CHAPTER  I 

Anderson  Crow,  Detective 

HE  was  imposing,  even  in  his  pensiveness.  There  was 
no  denying  the  fact  that  he  was  an  important  person 
age  in  Tinkletown,  and  to  the  residents  of  Tinkletown 
that  meant  a  great  deal,  for  was  not  their  village  a 
perpetual  monument  to  the  American  Revolution? 
Even  the  most  generalising  of  historians  were  com 
pelled  to  devote  at  least  a  paragraph  to  the  battle  of 
Tinkletown,  while  some  of  the  more  enlightened  gave 
a  whole  page  and  a  picture  of  the  conflict  that  brought 
glory  to  the  sleepy  inhabitants  whose  ancestors  were 
enterprising  enough  to  annihilate  a  whole  company  of 
British  redcoats,  once  on  a  time. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  a  particularly  disagreeable 
visitor  from  the  city  once  remarked,  in  the  pres 
ence  of  half  a  dozen  descendants  (after  waiting 
twenty  minutes  at  the  post-office  for  a  dime's  worth  of 
stamps)  ,that  Tinkletown  was  indeed  a  monument, but 
he  could  not  understand  why  the  dead  had  been  left 
unburied.  There  was  excellent  cause  for  resentment, 
but  the  young  man  and  his  stamps  were  far  away  be 
fore  the  full  force  of  the  slander  penetrated  the  brains 
of  the  listeners. 


2  The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Anderson  Crow  was  as  imposing  and  as  rugged  as 
the  tallest  shaft  of  marble  in  the  little  cemetery  on  the 
edge  of  the  town.  No  one  questioned  his  power  and 
authority,  no  one  misjudged  his  altitude,  and  no  one 
overlooked  his  dignity.  For  twenty-eight  years  he  had 
served  Tinkletown  and  himself  in  the  triple  capacity 
of  town  marshal,  fire  chief  and  street  commissioner. 
He  had  a  system  of  government  peculiarly  his  own; 
and  no  one  possessed  the  heart  or  temerity  to  upset  it, 
no  matter  what  may  have  been  the  political  induce 
ments.  It  would  have  been  like  trying  to  improve  the 
laws  of  nature  to  put  a  new  man  in  his  place.  He  had 
become  a  fixture  that  only  dissolution  could  remove.  Be 
it  said,  however,  that  dissolution  did  not  have  its  com 
mon  and  accepted  meaning  when  applied  to  Anderson 
Crow.  For  instance,  in  discoursing  upon  the  ob 
noxious  habits  of  the  town's  most  dissolute  rake — 
Alf  Reesling — Anderson  had  more  than  once  ven 
tured  the  opinion  that  "he  was  carrying  his  dissolution 
entirely  too  far." 

And  had  not  Anderson  Crow  risen  to  more  than 
local  distinction?  Had  not  his  fame  gone  abroad 
throughout  the  land  ?  Not  only  was  he  the  Marshal 
of  Tinkletown  at  a  salary  of  $200  a  year,  but  he  was 
president  of  the  County  Horse-thief  Detectives'  As 
sociation  and  also  a  life-long  delegate  to  the  State 
Convention  of  the  Sons  of  the  Revolution.  Along 
that  line,  let  it  be  added,  every  parent  in  Tinkletown 
bemoaned  the  birth  of  a  daughter,  because  that  simple 
circumstance  of  origin  robbed  the  society's  roster  of  a 
new  name. 


future  ahead. 


Anderson  Crow,  Detective  3 

Anderson  Crow,  at  the  age  of  forty-nine,  had  a 
proud  official  record  behind  him  and  a  guaranteed 
Doubtless  it  was  of  this  that  he  was 
thinking,  as  he 
leaned  pensively 
against  the  town 
hitching-rack  and 
gingerly  chewed 
the  blade  of  wire- 
grass  which 
dangled  even  below 
the  chin  whiskers 
that  had  been  with 
him  for  twenty 
years.  The  far 
away  expression  in 
his  watery -blue 
eyes  gave  evidence 
that  he  was  as 
great  reminiscently 
as  he  was  person 
ally.  So  successful 
had  been  his  career 
as  a  law  preserver, 
that  of  late  years 
no  evil-doer  had 
had  the  courage  to 
ply  his  nefarious 
games  in  the  com 
munity.  The  town 
drunkard,  Alf 


4  The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Reesling,  seldom  appeared  on  the  streets  in  his 
habitual  condition,  because,  as  he  dolefully  remarked, 
he  would  deserve  arrest  and  confinement  for  "crim 
inal  negligence,"  if  for  nothing  else.  The  marshal's 
fame  as  a  detective  had  long  since  escaped  from  the 
narrow  confines  of  Tinkletown.  He  was  well  known 
at  the  county  seat,  and  on  no  less  than  three  occasions 
had  his  name  mentioned  in  the  "big  city"  papers 
in  connection  with  the  arrest  of  notorious  horse- 
thieves. 

And  now  the  whole  town  was  trembling  with  a  new 
excitement,  due  to  the  recognition  accorded  her  triple 
official.  On  Monday  morning  he  had  ventured  forth 
from  his  office  in  the  long-deserted  "calaboose,"  re 
splendent  in  a  brand-new  nickel-plated  star.  By  noon 
everybody  in  town  knew  that  he  was  a  genuine  "de 
tective,"  a  member  of  the  great  organisation  known 
as  the  New  York  Imperial  Detective  Association; 
and  that  fresh  honour  had  come  to  Tinkletown 
through  the  agency  of  a  post-revolution  generation. 
The  beauty  of  it  all  was  that  Anderson  never  lost  a 
shred  of  his  serenity  in  explaining  how  the  associa 
tion  had  implored  him  to  join  its  forces,  even  going 
so  far  as  to  urge  him  to  come  to  New  York  City,  where 
he  could  assist  and  advise  in  all  of  its  large  opera 
tions.  And,  moreover,  he  had  been  obliged  to  pay 
but  ten  dollars  membership  fee,  besides  buying  the 
blazing  star  for  the  paltry  sum  of  three  dollars  and 
a  quarter. 

Every  passer-by  on  this  bright  spring  morning 
offered  a  respectful  "Howdy"  to  Anderson  Crow, 


Anderson  Crow,  Detective  5 

whose  only  recognition  was  a  slow  and  imposing  nod 
of  the  head.  Once  only  was  he  driven  to  relinquish 
his  pensive  attitude,  and  that  was  when  an  impertinent 
blue-bottle  fly  undertook  to  rest  for  a  brief  spell  upon 
the  nickel-plated  star.  Never  was  blue-bottle  more 
energetically  put  to  flight. 

But  even  as  the  Tinkletown  Pooh-Bah  posed  in  rest 
ful  supremacy  there  were  rushing  down  upon  him 
affairs  of  the  epoch-making  kind.  Up  in  the  clear, 
lazy  sky  a  thunderbolt  was  preparing  to  hurl  itself 
into  the  very  heart  of  Tinkletown,  and  at  the  very 
head  of  Anderson  Crow. 

Afterward  it  was  recalled  by  observing  citizens  that 
just  before  noon — seven  minutes  to  twelve,  in  fact — 
a  small  cloud  no  bigger  than  the  proverbial  hand 
crossed  the  sun  hurriedly  as  if  afraid  to  tarry.  At 
that  very  instant  a  stranger  drove  up  to  the  hitching- 
rack,  bringing  his  sweat-covered  horse  to  a  standstill 
so  abruptly  in  front  of  the  marshal's  nose  that  that 
dignitary's  hat  fell  off  backward. 

"Whoa!"  came  clearly  and  unmistakably  from  the 
lips  of  the  stranger  who  held  the  reins.  Half  a 
dozen  loafers  on  the  post-office  steps  were  positive 
that  he  said  nothing  more,  a  fact  that  was  afterward 
worth  remembering. 

"Here!"  exclaimed  Anderson  Crow  wrathfully. 
"Do  you  know  what  you're  doin',  consarn  you?" 

"I  beg  pardon,"  everybody  within  hearing  heard 
the  young  man  say.  "Is  this  the  city  of  Tinkletown  ?" 
He  said  "city,"  they  could  swear,  every  man's  son 
of  them. 


6  The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Yes,  it  is,"  answered  the  marshal  severely.  "What 
of  it?" 

"That's  all.  I  just  wanted  to  know.  Where's  the 
store?" 

"Which  store?"  quite  crossly.  The  stranger  seemed 
nonplussed  at  this. 

"Have  you  more  than — oh,  to  be  sure.  I  should 
say,  where  is  the  nearest  store?"  apologised  the 
stranger. 

"Well,  this  is  a  good  one,  I  reckon,"  said  Mr.  Crow 
laconically,  indicating  the  post-office  and  general 
store. 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  hold  my  horse  while 
I  run  in  there  for  a  minute?"  calmly  asked  the  new 
arrival  in  town,  springing  lightly  from  the  mud- 
spattered  buggy.  Anderson  Crow  almost  stag 
gered  beneath  this  indignity.  The  crowd  gasped, 
and  then  waited  breathlessly  for  the  withering 
process. 

"Why — why,  dod-gast  you,  sir,  what  do  you  think 
I  am — a  hitchin'-post?"  exploded  on  the  lips  of  the 
new  detective.  His  face  was  flaming  red. 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  me,  my  good  man,  but  I 
thought  I  saw  a  hitching-rack  as  I  drove  up.  Ah, 
here  it  is.  How  carehss  of  me.  But  say,  I  won't  be 
in  the  store  more  than  a  second,  and  it  doesn't  seem 
worth  while  to  tie  the  old  crow-bait.  If  you'll  just 
watch  him — or  her — for  a  minute  I'll  be  greatly 
obliged,  and " 

"Watch  your  own  horse,"  roared  the  marshal 
thunderously. 


Anderson  Crow,  Detective 


7 


"Don't  get  huffy,"  cried  the  young  man  cheerily. 
"It  will  be  worth  a  quarter  to  you." 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?"  demanded  Anderson 
Crow,  purple  to  the  roots  of  his  goatee. 

"Yes,  sir;  I  know  perfectly  well,  but  I  refuse  to  give 
it  away.  Here,  take  the  bit,  old  chap,  and  hold  Dob 
bin  for  about  a  minute  and  half,"  went  on  the  stranger 
ruthlessly;  and  before  Anderson  Crow  knew  what 


had  happened  he  was  actually  holding  the  panting 
nag  by  the  bit.  The  young  man  went  up  the  steps 
three  at  a  time,  almost  upsetting  Uncle  Gideon  Luce, 
who  had  not  been  so  spry  as  the  others  in  clearing  the 
way  for  him.  The  crowd  had  ample  time  in  which 
to  study  the  face,  apparel  and  manner  of  this  ener 
getic  young  man. 


8  The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

That  he  was  from  the  city,  good-looking  and  well 
dressed,  there  was  no  doubt.  He  was  tall  and  his 
face  was  beardless;  that  much  could  be  seen  at  a 
glance.  Somehow,  he  seemed  to  be  laughing  all  the 
time — a  fact  that  'vas  afterward  recalled  with  some 
surprise  and  no  little  horror.  At  the  time,  the 
loungers  thought  his  smile  was  a  merry  one,  but  after 
ward  they  stoutly  maintained  there  was  downright 
villainy  in  the  leer.  His  coat  was  very  dusty,  proving 
that  he  had  driven  far  and  swiftly.  Three  or  four  of 
the  loungers  followed  him  into  the  store.  He  was 
standing  before  the  counter  over  which  Mr.  Lamson 

served  his  soda- 
water.  In  one  hand 
he  held  an  envelope 
and  in  the  other  his 
straw  hat.  George 
Ray,  more  obser 
vant  than  the  rest, 
took  note  of  the  fact 
that  it  was  with  the 
hat  that  he  was  fan 
ning  himself  vigor 
ously. 

"A  plain  vanilla — 
please  rush  it 
along,"  commanded 
the  stranger.  Mr. 
Lamson,  if  possible 
slower  than  the 
town  itself,  actually 


Anderson  Crow,  Detective  9 

showed  unmistakable  signs  of  acceleration.  Tossing 
off  the  soda,  the  stranger  dried  his  lips  with  a  blue- 
hemmed  white  handkerchief.  "Is  this  the  post- 
office?"  he  asked. 

"Yep,"  said  Mr.  Lamson,  who  was  too  penurious 
to  waste  words. 

"Anything  here  for  me?"  demanded  the  new 
comer. 

"I'll  see,"  said  the  postmaster,  and  from  force  of 
habit  began  looking  through  the  pile  of  letters  with 
out  asking  the  man's  name.  Mr.  Lamson  knew  every 
body  in  the  county. 

"Nothing  here,"  taking  off  his  spectacles  con 
clusively. 

"I  didn't  think  there  was,"  said  the  other  com 
placently.  "Give  me  a  bottle  of  witch  hazel,  a  pack 
age  of  invisible  hair-pins  and  a  box  of  parlor  matches. 
Quick ;  I'm  in  a  hurry !" 

"Did  you  say  hat-pins?" 

"No,  sir;  I  said  hair-pins." 

"We  haven't  any  that  ain't  visible.  How  would 
safety-pins  do?" 

"Never  mind;  give  me  the  bottle  and  the  matches," 
said  the  other,  glancing  at  a  very  handsome  gold 
watch.  "Is  the  old  man  still  holding  my  horse?"  he 
called  to  a  citizen  near  the  door.  Seven  necks 
stretched  simultaneously  to  accommodate  him,  and 
seven  voices  answered  in  the  affirmative.  The 
stranger  calmly  opened  the  box  of  matches,  filled  his 
silver  match-safe,  and  then  threw  the  box  back  on 
the  counter,  an  unheard-of  piece  of  profligacy  in  those 


i  o       *  The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

parts.  "Needn't  mind  wrapping  up  the  bottle,"  he 
said. 

"Don't  you  care  for  these  matches?"  asked  Mr. 
Lamson  in  mild  surprise. 

"I'll  donate  them  to  the  church,"  said  the  other, 
tossing  a  coin  upon  the  counter  and  dashing  from 
the  store.  The  crowd  ebbed  along  behind  him. 
"Gentle  as  a  lamb,  isn't  he?"  he  called  to  Anderson 
Crow,  who  still  clutched  the  bit.  "Much  obliged, 
sir;  I'll  do  as  much  for  you  some  day.  If  you're  ever 
in  New  York,  hunt  me  up  and  I'll  see  that  you  have  a 
good  time.  What  road  do  I  take  to  Crow's  Cliff  ?" 

"Turn  to  your  left  here,"  said  Anderson  Crow 
before  he  thought.  Then  he  called  himself  a  fool 
for  being  so  obliging  to  the  fellow. 

"How  far  is  it  from  here?" 

"Mile  and  a  half,"  again  answered  Mr.  Crow  help 
lessly.  This  time  he  almost  swore  under  his  breath. 

"But  he  can't  get  there,"  volunteered  one  of  the 
bystanders. 

"Why  can't  he?"  demanded  the  marshal. 

"Bridge  over  Turnip  Creek  is  washed  out.  Did  you 
forget  that?" 

"Of  course  not,"  promptly  replied  Mr.  Crow,  who 
had  forgotten  it.  "But,  dang  it,  he  c'n  swim,  can't 
he?" 

"You  say  the  bridge  is  gone?"  asked  the  stranger, 
visibly  excited. 

"Yes,  and  the  crick's  too  high  to  ford,  too." 
"Well,  how  in  thunder  am  I  to  get  to  Crow's  Cliff  ?" 
"There's  another  bridge  four  miles  upstream.     It's 


Anderson  Crow,  Detective  i  i 

still  there,"  said  George  Ray.  Anderson  Crow  had 
scornfully  washed  his  hands  of  the  affair. 

"Confound  the  luck!  I  haven't  time  to  drive  that 
far.  I  have  to  be  there  at  half-past  twelve.  I'm 
late  now !  Is  there  no  way  to  get  across  this  miser 
able  creek?"  He  was  in  the  buggy  now,  whip  in 
hand,  and  his  eyes  wore  an  anxious  expression.  Some 
of  the  men  vowed  later  that  he  positively  looked 
frightened. 

"There's  a  foot-log  high  and  dry,  and  you  can  walk 
across,  but  you  can't  get  the  horse  and  buggy  over," 
said  one  of  the  men. 

"Well,  that's  just  what  I'll  have  to  do.  Say,  Mr. 
Officer,  suppose  you  drive  me  down  to  the  creek  and 
then  bring  the  horse  back  here  to  a  livery  stable.  I'll 
pay  you  well  for  it.  I  must  get  to  Crow's  Clifi  in 
fifteen  minutes." 

"I'm  no  errant-boy!"  cried  Anderson  Crow  so 
wrathfully  that  two  or  three  boys  snickered. 

"You're  a  darned  old  crank,  that's  wlmt  you  are !" 
exclaimed  the  stranger  angrily.  Everybody  gasped, 
and  Mr.  Crow  staggered  back  against  the  hitching- 
rail. 

"See  here,  young  man,  none  o'  tkat !"  he  sputtered. 
"You  can't  talk  that  way  to  an  officer  of  the  law. 
I'll " 

"You  won't  do  anything,  do  you  hear  that?  But  if 
you  knew  who  I  am  you'd  be  doing  something 
blamed  quick."  A  dozen  men  heard  him  say  it,  and 
they  remembered  it  word  for  word. 

"You  go  scratch  yourself!"  retorted  Anderson  Crow 


1 2          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

scornfully.  That  was  supposed  to  be  a  terrible  chal 
lenge,  but  the  stranger  took  no  notice  of  it. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  this  horse  and  buggy?"  he 
growled,  half  to  himself.  "I  bought  the  darned  thing 
outright  up  in  Boggs  City,  just  because  the  liveryman 
didn't  know  me  and  wouldn't  let  me  a  rig.  Now  I 
suppose  I'll  have  to  take  the  old  plug  down  to  the 
creek  and  drown  him  in  order  to  get  rid  of  him." 

Nobody  remonstrated.  He  looked  a  bit  dangerous 
with  his  broad  shoulders  and  square  jaw. 

"What  will  you  give  me  for  the  outfit,  horse,  buggy, 
harness  and  all?  I'll  sell  cheap  if  some  one  makes  a 
quick  offer."  The  bystanders  looked  at  one  another 
blankly,  and  at  last  the  concentrated  gaze  fell  upon 
the  Pooh-Bah  of  the  town.  The  case  seemed  to  be 
one  that  called  for  his  attention ;  truly,  it  did  not  look 
like  public  property,  this  astounding  proposition. 

"What  you  so  derned  anxious  to  sell  for?"  de 
manded  Anderson  Crow,  listening  from  a  distance 
to  see  if  he  could  detect  a  blemish  in  the  horse's 
breathing  gear.  At  a  glance,  the  buggy  looked  safe 
enough. 

"I'm  anxious  to  sell  for  cash,"  replied  the  stranger; 
and  Anderson  was  floored.  The  boy  who  snickered 
this  time  had  cause  to  regret  it,  for  Mr.  Crow  ar 
rested  him  half  an  hour  later  for  carrying  a  bean- 
shooter.  "I  paid  a  hundred  dollars  for  the  outfit  in 
Boggs  City,"  went  on  the  stranger  nervously.  "Some 
one  make  an  offer — and  quick !  I'm  in  a  rush !" 

"I'll  give  five  dollars!"  said  one  of  the  onlookers 
with  an  apologetic  laugh.  This  was  the  match  that 


Anderson  Crow,  Detective  i  3 

started  fire  in  the  thrifty  noddles  of  Tinkletown's 
best  citizens.  Before  they  knew  it  they  were  bidding 
against  each  other  with  the  true  "horse-swapping" 
instinct,  and  the  offers  had  reached  $21.25  when  the 
stranger  unceremoniously  closed  the  sale  by  crying 
out,  "Sold !"  There  is  no  telling  how  high  the  bids 
might  have  gone  if  he  could  have  waited  half  an  hour 
or  so.  Uncle  Gideon  Luce  afterward  said  that  he 
could  have  had  twenty-four  dollars  "just  as  well  as 
not."  They  were  bidding  up  a  quarter  at  a  time,  and 
no  one  seemed  willing  to  drop  out.  The  successful 
bidder  was  Anderson  Crow. 

"You  can  pay  me  as  we  drive  along.  Jump  in!" 
cried  the  stranger,  looking  at  his  watch  with  con 
siderable  agitation.  "All  I  ask  is  that  you  drive  me 
to  the  foot-log  that  crosses  the  creek." 


CHAPTER  II 

The  Pursuit  Begins 

FIFTEEN  minutes  later  Anderson  Crow  was  parading 
proudly  about  the  town.  He  had  taken  the  stranger 
to  the  creek  and  had  seen  him  scurry  across  the  log  to 
the  opposite  side,  supplied  with  directions  that  would 
lead  him  to  the  nearest  route  through  the  swamps  and 
timberland  to  Crow's  Cliff.  The  stranger  had 
Anderson's  money  in  his  pocket;  but  Anderson  had  a 
very  respectable  sort  of  driving  outfit  to  show  for 
it.  His  wife  kept  dinner  for  him  until  two  o'clock, 
and  then  sent  the  youngest  Crow  out  to  tell  her  father 
that  he'd  have  to  go  hungry  until  supper-time. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  Anderson  failed  to  reach  home 
in  time  for  the  midday  meal.  He  started  home  prop 
erly  enough,  but  what  progress  could  he  make  when 
everybody  in  town  stopped  him  to  inquire  about  the 
remarkable  deal  and  to  have  a  look  at  the  purchase. 
Without  a  single  dissenting  voice,  Tinkletown  said 
Anderson  had  very  much  the  "best  of  the  bargain." 
George  Ray  meant  all  right  when  he  said,  "A  fool 
for  luck,"  but  he  was  obliged  to  explain  thoroughly 
the  witticism  before  the  proud  Mr.  Crow  could  con 
sider  himself  appeased. 

It  was  not  until  he  pulled  up  in  front  of  the  Weekly 
Banner  establishment  to  tell  the  reporter  "the  news" 


The  Pursuit  Begins  1 5 

that  his  equanimity  received  its  first  jar.  He  was 
quite  proud  of  the  deal,  and,  moreover,  he  enjoyed 
seeing  his  name  in  the  paper.  In  the  meantime  almost 
everybody  in  Tinkletown  was  discussing  the  awful 
profligacy  of  the  stranger.  It  had  not  occurred  to 
anybody  to  wonder  why  he  had  been  in  such  a  hurry 
to  reach  Crow's  Cliff,  a  wild,  desolate  spot  down  the 
river. 

"The  hoss  alone  is  worth  fifty  dollars  easy,"  volun 
teered  Mr.  Crow  triumphantly.  The  detective's  badge 
on  his  inflated  chest  seemed  to  sparkle  with  glee. 

"Say,  Anderson,  isn't  it  a  little  queer  that  he  should 
sell  out  so  cheap?"  asked  Harry  Squires,  the  local 
reporter  and  pressfeeder. 

"What's  that?"  demanded  Anderson  Crow  sharply. 

"Do  you  think  it's  really  true  that  he  bought  the 
nag  up  at  Boggs  City?"  asked  the  sceptic.  Mr.  Crow 
wallowed  his  quid  of  tobacco  helplessly  for  a  minute 
or  two.  He  could  feel  himself  turning  pale. 

"He  said  so;  ain't  that  enough?"  he  managed  to 
bluster. 

"It  seems  to  have  been,"  replied  Harr),  who  had 
gone  to  night  school  in  Albany  for  two  years. 

"Well,  what  in  thunder  are  you  talking  about  then?" 
exclaimed  Anderson  Crow,  whipping  up. 

"I'll  bet  three  dollars  it's  a  stolen  outfit!" 

"You  go  to  Halifax!"  shouted  Anderson,  but  his 
heart  was  cold.  Something  told  him  that  Harry 
Squires  was  right.  He  drove  home  in  a  state  of  dire 
uncertainty  and  distress.  Somehow,  his  enthusiasm 
was  gone. 


1 6          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Dang  it!"  he  said,  without  reason,  as  he  was  un 
hitching  the  horse  in  the  barn  lot. 

"Hey,  Mr.  Crow!"  cried  a  shrill  voice  from  the 
street.  He  looked  up  and  saw  a  small  boy  coming 
on  the  run. 

"What's  up,  Toby?"  asked  Mr.  Crow,  all  a-tremble. 
He  knew ! 

"They  just  got  a  telephone  from  Boggs  City," 
panted  the  boy,  "down  to  the  Banner  office.  Harry 
Squires  says  for  you  to  hurry  down — buggy  and  all. 
It's  been  stole." 

"Good  Lord!"  gasped  Anderson.  His  badge 
danced  before  his  eyes  and  then  seemed  to  shrivel. 

Quite  a  crowd  had  collected  at  the  Banner  office. 
There  was  a  sudden  hush  when  the  marshal  drove 
up.  Even  the  horse  felt  the  intensity  of  the  moment. 
He  shied  at  a  dog  and  then  kicked  over  the  dash 
board,  upsetting  Anderson  Crow's  meagre  dignity 
and  almost  doing  the  same  to  the  vehicle. 

"You're  a  fine  detective !"  jeered  Harry  Squires;  and 
poor  old  Anderson  hated  him  ever  afterward. 

"What  have  you  heerd?"  demanded  the  marshal. 

"There's  been  a  terrible  murder  at  Boggs  City,  that's 
all.  The  chief  of  police  just  telephoned  to  us  that 
a  farmer  named  Grover  was  found  dead  in  a  ditch 
just  outside  of  town — shot  through  the  head,  his 
pockets  rifled.  It  is  known  that  he  started  to  town 
to  deposit  four  hundred  dollars  hog-money  in  the 
bank.  The  money  is  missing,  and  so  are  his  horse 
and  buggy.  A  young  fellow  was  seen  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  early  this  morning — a  stranger.  The  chiefs 


The  Pursuit  Begins  17 

description  corresponds  with  the  man  who  sold  that 
rig  to  you.  The  murderer  is  known  to  have  driven 
in  this  direction.  People  saw  him  going  almost  at  a 
gallop." 

It  is  not  necessary  to  say  that  Tinkletown  thoroughly 
turned  inside  out  with  excitement.  The  whole  pop 
ulation  was  soon  at  the  post-office,  and  everybody  was 
trying  to  supply  Anderson  Crow  with  wits.  He  had 
lost  his  own. 

"We've  got  to  catch  that  fellow,"  finally  resolved 
the  marshal.  There  was  a  dead  silence. 

"He's  got  a  pistol,"  ventured  some  one. 

"How  do  you  know?"  demanded  Mr.  Crow  keenly. 
"Did  y' see  it?" 

"He  couldn't  ha'  killed  that  feller  'thout  a  gun." 

"That's  a  fact,"  agreed  Anderson  Crow.  "Well, 
we've  got  to  get  him,  anyhow.  I  call  for  volunteers ! 
Who  will  join  me  in  the  search?"  cried  the  marshal 
bravely. 

"I  hate  to  go  to  Crow's  Cliff  after  him,"  said  George 
Ray.  "It's  a  lonesome  place,  and  as  dark  as  night 
'mong  them  trees  and  rocks.!' 

"It's  our  duty  to  catch  him.  He's  a  criminal,  and 
besides,  he's  killed  a  man,"  said  Crow  severely. 

"And  he  has  twenty-one  dollars  of  your  money," 
added  Harry  Squires.  "I'll  go  with  you,  Anderson. 
I've  got  a  revolver." 

"Look  out  there!"  roared  Anderson  Crow.  "The 
blamed  thing  might  go  off  !"  he  added  as  the  reporter 
drew  a  shiny  six-shooter  from  his  pocket. 

The  example  set  by  one  brave  man  had  its  influence 


1 8          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 


on  the  crowd.  A  score  or  more  volunteered,  despite 
the  objections  of  their  wives,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  Anderson  Crow  was  leading  his  motley  band 
of  sleuths  down  the  lane  to  the  foot-log  over  which 
the  desperado  had  gone  an  hour  before. 

It  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  man-hunt  that  various 
citizens  recalled  certain  actions  and  certain  character 
istics  of  the  stranger  which  had  made  them  suspicious 
from  the  start.  His  prodigal  disposition  of  the  box 
of  matches  impressed  most  of  them  as  reckless  dare- 
devilism;  his  haste,  anxiety,  and  a  single  instance  of 
mild  profanity  told  others  of  his  viciousness.  One 
man  was  sure  he  had  seen  the  stranger's  watch  chain 
in  farmer  Grover's  possession ;  and  another  saw  some 
thing  black  on  his  thumb,  which  he  now  remembered 
was  a  powder  stain. 

"I  noticed  all  them  things,"  averred  Anderson 
Crow,  supreme  once  more. 

"But  what  in  thunder  did  he  want  with  those  hair 
pins?"  inquired  George  Ray. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Anderson  mysteriously.  "You'll 
find  out  soon  enough." 


The  Pursuit  Begins 


"Do  you  know,  Anderson?"  some  one  asked. 

"Of  course  I  do,"  responded  the  marshal 
loftily. 

"Well,  what  were  they  for,  then?" 

"I'm  not  givin'  any  clews  away.  You  just  wait  a 
while  and  see  if  I'm  not  right." 

And  they  were  satisfied  that  the  detective  knew  all 
about  it.  After  crossing  the  foot-log  the  party  was 
divided  as  to  which  direction  it  should  take.  The 
marshal  said  the  man  had  run  to  the  southeast,  but 
for  some  inexplicable  reason  quite  a  number  of  the 
pursuers  wanted  to  hunt  for  him  in  the  northwest. 
Finally  it  was  decided  to  separate  into  posses  of  ten, 
all  to  converge  at  Crow's  Cliff  as  soon  as  possible. 
There  were  enough  double-barrelled  shotguns  in  the 
party  to  have  conquered  a  pirate  crew. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  Anderson  Crow  and  his  dele 
gation  came  to  the  narrow  path  which  led  to  the 
summit  of  Crow's  Clift.  They  were  very  brave  by 
this  time.  A  small  boy  was  telling  them  he  had  seen 
the  fugitive  about  dinner-time  "right  where  you  fel 
lers  are  standin'  now." 


20          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Did  he  have  any  blood  on  him  ?"  demanded  Ander 
son  Crow. 

"No,  sir;  not  'less  it  was  under  his  clothes." 

"Did  he  say  anythin'  to  you?" 

"He  ast  me  where  this  path  went  to." 

"See  that,  gentlemen !"  cried  Anderson.  "I  knew  I 
was  right.  He  wanted " 

"Well,  where  did  he  go?"  demanded  Harry  Squires. 

"I  said  it  went  to  the  top  of  the  clift.  An'  then  he 
said,  'How  do  you  git  to  the  river?'  I  tole  him  to 
go  down  this  side  path  here  an'  'round  the  bottom  of 
the  hill." 

"Didn't  he  go  up  the  cliff?"  demanded  the  marshal. 

"No,  sir." 

"Well,  what  in  thunder  did  he  ask  me  where  the 
cliff  was  if  he " 

"So  he  went  to  the  river,  eh?"  interrupted  Squires. 
"Come  on,  men;  he  went  down  through  this  brush 
and  bottomland." 

"He  got  lost,  I  guess,"  volunteered  the  boy. 

"What!" 

'  'Cause  he  yelled  at  me  after  he'd  gone  in  a-ways 
an'  ast — an'  ast "  The  boy  paused  irresolutely. 

"Asked  what?" 

"He  ast  me  where  in  h the  path  was." 

"By  ginger,  that's  him,  right  out  an'  out!"  ex 
claimed  Mr.  Crow  excitedly. 

'  'Nen  he  said  he'd  give  me  a  quarter  if  I'd  show 
him  the  way;  so  I " 

"Did  he  give  you  the  quarter?"  questioned  one  of 
the  men. 


The  Pursuit  Begins  2 1 

"Yep.  He'd  a  roll  of  bills  as  big  as  my  leg." 
Everybody  gasped  and  thought  of  Grover's  hog- 
money. 

"You  went  to  the  river  with  him?"  interrogated 
the  reporter. 

"I  went  as  fur  as  the  clearin',  an'  then  he  tole  me 
to  stop.  He  said  he  could  find  the  way  from  there. 
After  that  he  run  up  the  bank  as  if  some  one  was 
after  him.  There  was  a  boat  waitin'  fer  him  under 
the  clift." 

"Did  he  get  into  it?"  cried  Squires. 

"He  tole  me  not  to  look  or  he'd  break  my  neck," 
said  the  boy.  The  posse  nervously  fingered  its 
arsenal. 

"But  you  did  look?" 

"Yep.    I  seen  'em  plain." 

"Them?    Was  there  more  than  one?" 

"There  was  a  woman  in  the  skift." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  gasped  Squires. 

"Dang  it,  ain't  he  tellin'  you!"  Anderson  ejaculated 
scornfully. 

The  boy  was  hurried  off  at  the  head  of  the  posse, 
which  by  this  time  had  been  reinforced.  He  led  the 
way  through  the  dismal  thickets,  telling  his  story  as 
he  went. 

"She  was  mighty  purty,  too,"  he  said.  "The  feller 
waved  his  hat  when  he  seen  her,  an'  she  waved  back. 
He  run  down  an'  jumped  in  the  boat,  an'  'nen — 
'nen " 

"Then  what?"  exploded  Anderson  Crow. 

"He  kissed  herl" 


22          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"The  d murderer!"  roared  Crow. 

"He  grabbed  up  the  oars  and  rowed  'cross  an'  down 
stream.  An'  he  shuck  his  fist  at  me  when  he  see  I'd 
been  watchin',"  said  the  youngster,  ready  to  whimper 
now  that  he  realised  what  a  desperate  character  he 
had  been  dealing  with. 

"Where  did  he  land  on  the  other  side?"  pursued 
the  eager  reporter. 

"Down  by  them  wilier  trees,  'bout  half  a  mile  down. 
There's  the  skift  tied  to  a  saplin'.  Cain't  you  see  it?" 

Sure  enough,  the  stern  of  a  small  boat  stuck  out  into 
the  deep,  broad  river,  the  bow  being  hidden  by  the 
bushes. 

"Both  of  'em  hurried  up  the  hill  over  yender,  an' 
that's  the  last  I  seen  of  'em,"  concluded  the  lad. 

Anderson  Crow  and  his  man-hunters  stared  help 
lessly  at  the  broad,  swift  river,  and  then  looked  at 
each  other  in  despair.  There  was  no  boat  in  sight 
except  the  murderer's,  and  there  was  no  bridge  within 
ten  miles. 

While  they  were  growling  a  belated  detachment  of 
hunters  came  up  to  the  river  bank  greatly  agitated. 

"A  telephone  message  has  just  come  to  town  sayin' 
there  would  be  a  thousand  dollars  reward,"  an 
nounced  one  of  the  late  arrivals;  and  instantly  there 
was  an  imperative  demand  for  boats. 

"There's  an  old  raft  upstream  a-ways,"  said  the 
boy,  "but  I  don't  know  how  many  it  will  kerry.  They 
use  it  to  pole  corn  over  from  Mr.  Knoblock's  farm 
to  them  big  summer  places  in  the  hills  up  yender." 

"Is  it  sound?"  demanded  Anderson  Crow. 


The  Pursuit  Begins  23 

"Must  be  or  they  wouldn't  use  it,"  said  Squires  sar 
castically.  "Where  is  it,  kid?" 

The  boy  led  the  way  up  the  river  bank,  the  whole 
company  trailing  behind. 

"Sh !  Not  too  loud,"  cautioned  Anderson  Crow. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  a  wobbly  craft  put  out  to  sea, 
manned  by  a  picked  crew  of  determined  citizens  of 
Tinkletown.  When  they  were  in  midstream  a  loud 
cry  came  from  the  bank  they  had  left  behind.  Look 
ing  back,  Anderson  Crow  saw  excited  men  dashing 
about,  most  of  them  pointing  excitedly  up  into  the 
hills  across  the  river.  After  a  diligent  search  the 
eyes  of  the  men  on  the  raft  saw  what  it  was  that  had 
created  such  a  stir  at  the  base  of  Crow's  Cliff. 

"There  he  is!"  cried  Anderson  Crow  in  awed  tones. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  identity  of  the  coatless 
man  on  the  hillside.  A  dozen  men  recognised  him 
as  the  man  they  were  after.  Putting  his  hands  to 
his  mouth,  Anderson  Crow  bellowed  in  tones  that 
savoured  more  of  fright  than  command: 

"Say!" 

There  was  no  response. 

"Will  you  surrender  peaceably?"  called  the  captain 
of  the  craft. 

There  was  a  moment  of  indecision  on  the  part  of 
the  fugitive.  He  looked  at  his  companion,  and  she 
shook  her  head — they  all  saw  her  do  it. 

Then  he  shouted  back  his  reply. 


THEN    HE    SHOUTED    BACK    HIS    REPLY 


CHAPTER  III 

The  Culprits 

"Snip  ahoy!"  shouted  the  coatless  stranger  between 
his  palms. 

"Surrender  or  we'll  fill  you  full  of  lead!"  called 
Anderson  Crow. 

"Who  are  you — pirates?"  responded  the  fugitive 
with  a  laugh  that  chilled  the  marrow  of  the  men  on 
the  raft. 

"I'll  show  you  who  we  are!"  bellowed  Anderson 
Crow.  "Send  her  ashore,  boys,  fast.  The  derned 
scamp  sha'n't  escape  us.  Dead  er  alive,  we  must  have 
him." 

As  they  poled  toward  the  bank  the  woman  grasped 
the  man  by  the  arm,  dragging  him  back  among  the 
trees.  It  was  observed  by  all  that  she  was  greatly 
terrified.  Moreover,  she  was  exceedingly  fair  to 
look  upon — young,  beautiful,  and  a  most  incongru 
ous  companion  for  the  bloody  rascal  who  had  her  in 
his  power.  The  raft  bumped  against  the  reedy  bank, 
and  Anderson  Crow  was  the  first  man  ashore. 

"Come  on,  boys;  follow  me!  See  that  your  guns 
are  all  right!  Straight  up  the  hill  now,  an'  spread 
out  a  bit  so's  we  can  surround  him !"  commanded  he 
in  a  high  treble. 

"But  supposin'  he  surrounds  us,"  panted  a  cautious 
pursuer,  half  way  up  the  hill. 


26          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"That's  what  we've  got  to  guard  against,"  retorted 
Anderson  Crow.  The  posse  bravely  swept  up  to  and 
across  the  greensward ;  but  the  fox  was  gone.  There 
was  no  sight  or  sound  of  him  to  be  had.  It  is  but 
just  to  say  that  fatigue  was  responsible  for  the  deep 
breath  that  came  from  each  member  of  the  pursuing 
party. 

"Into  the  woods  after  him!"  shouted  Anderson 
Crow.  "Hunt  him  down  like  a  rat!" 

In  the  meantime  a  coatless  young  man  and  a  most 
enticing  young  woman  were  scampering  off  among 
the  oaks  and  underbrush,  consumed  by  excitement 
and  no  small  degree  of  apprehension. 

"They  really  seem  to  be  in  earnest  about  it,  Jack," 
urged  the  young  woman  insistently,  to  offset  his  some 
what  sarcastic  comments. 

"How  the  dickens  do  you  suppose  they  got  onto 
me?"  he  groaned.  "I  thought  the  tracks  were  beauti 
fully  covered.  No  one  suspected,  I'm  sure." 

"I  told  you,  dear,  how  it  would  turn  out,"  she  cried 
in  a  panic-stricken  voice. 

"Good  heavens,  Marjory,  don't  turn  against  me !  It 
all  seemed  so  easy  and  so  sure,  dear.  There  wasn't  a 
breath  of  suspicion.  What  are  we  to  do?  I'll  stop 
and  fight  the  whole  bunch  if  you'll  just  let  go  my 
arm." 

"No,  you  won't,  Jack  Barnes!"  she  exclaimed  reso 
lutely,  her  pretty  blue  eyes  wide  with  alarm.  "Didn't 
you  hear  them  say  they'd  fill  you  full  of  lead?  They 
had  guns  and  everything.  Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear !  isn't 
it  horrid?" 


The  Culprits  27 

"The  worst  of  it  is  they've  cut  us  off  from  the  river," 
he  said  miserably.  "If  I  could  have  reached  the  boat 
ahead  of  them  they  never  could  have  caught  us.  I 
could  distance  that  old  raft  in  a  mile." 

"I  know  you  could,  dear,"  she  cried,  looking  with 
frantic  admiration  upon  his  broad  shoulders  and 
brawny  bare  arms.  "But  it  is  out  of  the  question 
now." 

"Never  mind,  sweetheart;  don't  let  it  fuss  you  so.  It 
will  turn  out  all  right,  I  know  it  will." 

"Oh,  I  can't  run  any  farther,"  she  gasped  despair 
ingly. 

"Poor  little  chap  !    Let  me  carry  you  ?" 

"You  big  ninny!" 

"We  are  at  least  three  miles  from  your  house,  dear, 
and  surrounded  by  deadly  perils.  Can  you  climb  a 
tree?" 

"I  can — but  I  won't!"  she  refused  flatly,  her  cheeks 
very  red. 

"Then  I  fancy  we'll  have  to  keep  on  in  this  manner. 
It's  a  confounded  shame — the  whole  business.  Just 
as  I  thought  everything  was  going  so  smoothly,  too. 
It  was  all  arranged  to  a  queen's  taste — nothing  was 
left  undone.  Bracken  was  to  meet  us  at  his  uncle's 
boathouse  down  there,  and — good  heavens,  there  was 
a  shot!" 

The  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle  broke  upon  the  still, 
balmy  air,  as  they  say  in  the  "yellow-backs,"  and  the 
fugitives  looked  at  each  other  with  suddenly  awakened 
dread. 

"The  fools !"  grated  the  man. 


28          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"What  do  they  mean?"  cried  the  breathless  girl, 
very  white  in  the  face. 

'They  are  trying  to  frighten  us,  that's  all.  Hang  it  I 
If  I  only  knew  the  lay  of  the  land.  I'm  completely 
lost,  Marjory.  Do  you  know  precisely  where  we 
are?" 

"Our  home  is  off  to  the  north  about  three  miles. 
We  are  almost  opposite  Crow's  Cliff — the  wildest  part 
of  the  country.  There  are  no  houses  along  this  part 
of  the  river.  All  of  the  summer  houses  are  farther 
up  or  on  the  other  side.  It  is  too  hilly  here.  There  is 
a  railroad  off  there  about  six  miles.  There  isn't  a 
boathouse  or  fisherman's  hut  nearer  than  two  miles. 
Mr.  Bracken  keeps  his  boat  at  the  point — two  miles 
south,  at  least." 

"Yes;  that's  where  we  were  to  have  gone — by  boat. 
Hang  it  all !  Why  did  we  ever  leave  the  boat  ?  You 
can  never  scramble  through  all  this  brush  to  Bracken's 
place;  it's  all  I  can  do.  Look  at  my  arms !  They  are 
scratched  to " 

"Oh,  dear !  It's  dreadful,  Jack.  You  poor  fellow, 
let  me " 

"We  haven't  time,  dearest.  By  thunder,  I  wouldn't 
have  those  Rubes  head  us  off  now  for  the  whole 
county.  The  jays !  How  could  they  have  found  us  out  ?" 

"Some  one  must  have  told." 

"But  no  one  knew  except  the  Brackens,  you  and  I." 

"I'll^wager  my  head  Bracken  is  saying  hard  things 
for  fair  down  the  river  there." 

'He — he — doesn't  swear,  Jack,"  she  panted. 

"Why,  you  are  ready  to  drop !    Can't  you  go  a  step 


'"SAFE    FOR    A     MINUTE    OR    TWO    AT    LEAST,'     HE    WHISPERED 


The  Culprits  29 

farther?  Let's  stop  here  and  face  'em.  I'll  bluff  'em 
out  and  we'll  get  to  Bracken's  some  way.  But  I  won't 
give  up  the  game  !  Not  for  a  million  !" 

"Then  we  can't  stop.  You  forget  I  go  in  for  gym 
nasium  work.  I'm  as  strong  as  anything,  only  I'm — 
I'm  a  bit  nervous.  Oh,  I  knew  something  would  go 
wrong!"  she  wailed.  They  were  now  standing  like 
trapped  deer  in  a  little  thicket,  listening  for  sounds  of 
the  hounds. 

"Are  you  sorry,  dear?" 

"No,  no!  I  love  you,  Jack,  and  I'll  go  through 
everything  with  you  and  for  you.  Really,"  she  cried 
with  a  fine  show  of  enthusiasm,  "this  is  jolly  good  fun, 

isn't  it?    Being  chased  like  regular  bandits " 

"Sh!    Drop  down,  dear!     There's  somebody  pass 
ing  above  us — hear  him?" 

They  crawled  into  a  maze  of  hazel  bushes  with  much 
less  dignity  than  haste.  Two  men  sped  by  an  instant 
later,  panting  and  growling. 

"Safe  for  a  minute  or  two  at  least,"  he  whispered  as 
the  crunching  footsteps  were  lost  to  the  ear.  "They 
won't  come  back  this  way,  dear." 

"They  had  guns,  Jack!"  she  whispered,  terrified. 

"I  don't  understand  it,  hanged  if  I  do,"  he  said,  pull 
ing  his  brows  into  a  mighty  scowl.  "They  are  after 
us  like  a  pack  of  hounds.  It  must  mean  something. 
Lord,  but  we  seem  to  have  stirred  up  a  hornet's  nest !" 

"Oh,    dear,    I   wish   we  were   safely   at "    she 

paused. 

"At  home?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"At  Bracken's,"  she  finished;  and  if  any  of  the  pur- 


The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

suers  had  been  near 
enough  he  might 
have  heard  the  un 
mistakable  sugges 
tion  of  a  kiss. 

"I  feel  better," 
he  said,  squaring 
his  shoulders. 
"Now,  let  me 
think.  We  must 
outwit  these  fel 
lows,  whoever  they 
are.  By  George,  I 
remember  one  of 
them!  That  old 
fellow  who  bought 
the  horse  is  with 
them.  That's  it! 
The  horse  is  mixed  up  in  this,  I'll  bet  my  head."  They 
sat  upon  the  ground  for  several  minutes,  he  thinking 
deeply,  she  listening  with  her  pretty  ears  Intent. 

"I  wonder  if  they've  left  anybody  to  guard  our 
boat?"  he  said  suddenly.  "Come  on,  Marjory;  let's 
investigate!  By  George,  it  would  be  just  like  them 
to  leave  it  unprotected !" 

Once  more  they  were  moving  cautiously  through  the 
brush,  headed  for  the  river.  Mr.  Jack  Barnes,  who 
ever  he  was  and  whatever  his  crime,  was  a  resourceful, 
clever  young  man.  He  had  gauged  the  intelligence 
of  the  pursuers  correctly.  When  he  peered  through 
the  brush  along  the  river  bank  he  saw  the  skiff  in  the 


The  Culprits  3 1 

reeds  below,  just  as  they  had  left  it.  There  was  the 
lunch  basket,  the  wee  bit  of  a  steamer  trunk  with  all 
its  labels,  a  parasol  and  a  small  handbag. 

"Goody,  goody!"  Marjory  cried  like  a  happy 
child. 

"Don't  show  yourself  yet,  dearie.  I'll  make  sure. 
They  may  have  an  ambuscade.  Wait  here  for  me." 

He  crept  down  the  bank  and  back  again  before  she 
could  fully  subdue  the  tremendous  thumping  his 
temerity  had  started  in  her  left  side. 

"It's  safe  and  sound,"  he  whispered  joyously.  "The 
idiots  have  forgotten  the  boat.  Quick,  dear;  let's 
make  a  dash  for  it!  Their  raft  is  upstream  a  hun 
dred  yards,  and  it  is  also  deserted.  If  we  can  once 
get  well  across  the  river  we  can  give  them  the  laugh." 

"But  they  may  shoot  us  from  the  bank,"  she  pro 
tested  as  they  plunged  through  the  weeds. 


3  2          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"They  surely  wouldn't  shoot  a  woman!"  he  cried 
gayly. 

"But  you  are  not  a  woman !" 

"And  I'm  not  afraid  of  mice  or  men.    Jump  in  1" 

Off  from  the  weeds  shot  the  light  skiff.  The  water 
splashed  for  a  moment  under  the  spasmodic  strokes 
of  the  oarsman,  and  then  the  little  boat  streaked  out 
into  the  river  like  a  thing  of  life.  Marjory  sat  in  the 
stern  and  kept  her  eyes  upon  the  bank  they  were  leav 
ing.  Jack  Barnes  drove  every  vestige  of  his  strength 
into  the  stroke;  somehow  he  pulled  like  a  man  who 
had  learned  how  on  a  college  crew.  They  were  half 
way  across  the  broad  river  before  they  were  seen  from 
the  hills.  The  half  dozen  men  who  lingered  at  the 
base  of  Crow's  Cliff  had  shouted  the  alarm  to  their 
friends  on  the  other  side,  and  the  fugitives  were 
sighted  once  more.  But  it  was  too  late.  The  boat 
was  well  out  of  gunshot  range  and  making  rapid  prog 
ress  downstream  in  the  shelter  of  the  high  bluffs  below 
Crow's  Cliff.  Jack  Barnes  was  dripping  with 
perspiration,  but  his  stroke  was  none  the  feebler. 

"They  see  us!"  she  cried. 

"Don't  wriggle  so,  Marjory — trim  boat!"  he 
panted.  "They  can't  hit  us,  and  we  can  go  two  miles 
to  their  one." 

"And  we  can  get  to  Bracken's!"  she  cried  tri 
umphantly.  A  deep  flush  overspread  her  pretty  face. 

"Hooray!"  he  shouted  with  a  grin  of  pure  delight. 
Far  away  on  the  opposite  bank  Anderson  Crow  and 
his  sleuths  were  congregating,  their  baffled  gaze  upon 
the  man  who  had  slipped  out  of  their  grasp.  The 


The  Culprits  33 

men  of  the  posse  were  pointing  at  the  boat  and  argu 
ing  frantically;  there  were  decided  signs  of  dispute 
among  them.  Finally  two  guns  flew  up,  and  then 
came  the  puffs  of  smoke,  the  reports  and  little  splashes 
of  water  near  the  flying  skiff. 

"Oh,  they  are  shooting!"  she  cried  in  a  panic. 

"And  rifles,  too,"  he  grated,  redoubling  his  pull  on 
the  oars.  Other  shots  followed,  all  falling  short. 
"Get  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  Marjory. 
Don't  sit  up  there  and  be " 

"I'll  sit  right  where  I  am,"  she  cried  defiantly. 

Anderson  Crow  waved  to  the  men  under  Crow's 
Cliff,  and  they  began  to  make  their  arduous  way  along 
the  bank  in  the  trail  of  the  skiff.  Part  of  the  armed 
posse  hurried  down  and  boarded  the  raft,  while  others 
followed  the  chase  by  land. 

"We'll  beat  them  to  Bracken's  by  a  mile,"  cried  Jack 
Barnes. 

"If  they  don't  shoot  us,"  she  responded.  "Why, 
oh,  why  are  they  so  intent  upon  killing  us?" 

"They  don't  want  you  to  be  a  widow  and — break 
a — lot  of  hearts,"  he  said.  "If  they — hit  me  now 
you — won't  be — dangerous  as  a — widow." 

"Oh,  you  heartless  thing!  How  can  you  jest  about 
it?  I'd — I'd  go  into  mourning,  anyway,  Jack,"  she 
concluded,  on  second  thought.  "We  are  just  as  good 
as  married,  you  see." 

"It's  nice — of  you  to  say  it,  dear — but  we're  a  long 
— way  from — Bracken's.  Gee!  That  was  close!" 
A  bullet  splashed  in  the  water  not  ten  feet  from  the 
boat.  "The  cowards!  They're  actually  trying  to 


34          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

kill  us !"  For  the  first  time  his  face  took  on  a  look  of 
alarm  and  his  eyes  grew  desperate.  "I  can't  let  them 
shoot  at  you,  Marjory,  dear !  What  the  dickens  they 
want  I  don't  know,  but  I'm  going  to  surrender."  He 
had  stopped  rowing  and  was  making  ready  to  wave 
his  white  handkerchief  on  high. 

"Never!"  she  cried  with  blazing  eyes.  "Give  me 
the  oars!"  She  slid  into  the  other  rowing  seat  and 
tried  to  snatch  the  oars  from  the  rowlocks. 

"Bravo !  I  could  kiss  you  a  thousand  times  for  that. 
Come  on,  you  Indians !  You're  a  darling,  Marjory." 
Again  the  oars  caught  the  water,  and  Jack  Barnes's 
white  handkerchief  lay  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  He 
was  rowing  for  dear  life,  and  there  was  a  smile  on  his 
face. 

The  raft  was  left  far  behind  and  the  marksmen 
were  put  out  of  range  with  surprising  ease.  Fifteen 
minutes  later  the  skiff  shot  across  the  river  and  up 
to  the  landing  of  Bracken's  boathouse,  while  a  mile 
back  in  the  brush  Anderson  Crow  and  his  men  were 
wrathfully  scrambling  in  pursuit. 

"Hey,  Bracken!  Jimmy!"  shouted  Jack  Barnes, 
jumping  out  upon  the  little  wharf.  Marjory  gave 
him  her  hands  and  was  whisked  ashore  and  into  his 
arms.  "Run  into  the  boathouse,  dear.  I'll  yank  this 
stuff  ashore.  Where  the  dickens  is  Bracken?" 

The  boathouse  door  opened  slowly  and  a  sleepy 
young  man  looked  forth. 

"I  thought  you'd  never  come,"  he  yawned. 

"Wake  up,  you  old  loafer !  We're  here  and  we  are 
pursued!  Where  are  George  and  Amy?"  cried 


The  Culprits  35 

Mr.  Barnes,  doing  herculean  duty  as  a  baggage 
smasher. 

"Pursued?"  cried  the  sleepy  young  man,  suddenly 
awake. 

"Yes,  and  shot  at!"  cried  Marjory,  running  past 
him  and  into  the  arms  of  a  handsome  young  woman 
who  was  emerging  from  the  house. 

"We've  no  time  to  lose,  Jimmy!  They  are  on  to 
us,  Heaven  knows  how.  They  are  not  more  than  ten 
minutes  behind  us.  Get  it  over  with,  Jimmy,  for 
Heaven's  sake!  Here,  George,  grab  this  trunk!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

Anderson  Rectifies  an  Error 

IN  a  jiffy  the  fugitives  and  their  property  were  trans 
ferred  to  the  interior  of  the  roomy  boathouse,  the 
doors  bolted,  and  George  Crosby  stationed  at  a  win 
dow  to  act  as  lookout. 

"Is  it  your  father?"  demanded  the  Rev.  James 
Bracken,  turning  to  Marjory.  Young  Mrs.  Crosby 
was  looking  on  eagerly. 

"Mr.  Brewster  is  at  home  and  totally  oblivious  to 
all  this,"  cried  Jack  Barnes.  "I  don't  know  what  it 
means.  Here's  the  license,  Jimmy.  Are  you  ready, 
Marjory?" 

"This  is  rather  a  squeamish  business,  Jack "  be 
gan  the  young  minister  in  the  negligee  shirt.  He 
was  pulling  on  his  coat  as  he  made  the  remark. 

"Oh,  hurry,  Jimmy;  please  hurry!"  cried  Marjory 
Brewster. 

"Don't  wait  a  second,  Jimmy  Bracken!"  cried  Amy 
Crosby,  dancing  with  excitement.  "You  can't  go 
back  on  them  now !" 

Three  minutes  later  there  was  no  Marjory  Brewster, 
but  there  was  a  Mrs.  John  Ethelbert  Barnes — and  she 
was  kissing  her  husband  rapturously. 

"Now,  tell  us  everything,"  cried  Mrs.  Crosby  after 
the  frantic  congratulations.  The  Reverend  "Jimmy" 
Bracken,  of  the  Eleventh  Presbyterian  Church,  was 


Anderson  Rectifies  an  Error  37 

the  only  one  who  seemed  uncertain  as  to  his  position. 
In  the  first  place,  old  Judge  Brewster  was  a  man  of 
influence  in  the  metropolis,  from  which  all  had  fled  for 
a  sojourn  in  the  hills.  He  and  his  daughter  were 
Episcopalians,  but  that  made  them  none  the  less  im 
portant  in  the  eyes  of  "Jimmy"  Bracken.  In  the 
second  place,  Jack  Barnes  was  a  struggling  lawyer,  in 
the  Year  of  our  Lord  1880,  and  possessed  of  objec 
tionable  poverty.  The  young  men  had  been  room 
mates  at  college.  Friendship  had  overcome  discretion 
in  this  instance,  at  least.  The  deed  being  done,  young 
Mr.  Bracken  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  it  had  not 
been  overdone,  so  to  speak. 

"I  wish  somebody  would  tell  me!"  exclaimed  Jack 
Barnes,  with  a  perplexed  frown.  "The  beastly  jays 
shot  at  us  and  all  that.  You'd  think  I  was  an  out 
law.  And  they  blazed  away  at  Marjory,  too,  hang 
them!" 

Marjory,  too  excited  to  act  like  a  blushing  bride, 
took  up  the  story  and  told  all  that  had  happened. 
George  Crosby  became  so  interested  that  he  forgot 
to  keep  guard. 

"This  is  a  funny  mess!"  he  exclaimed.  "There's 
something  wrong 

"Hey,  you !"  came  a  shout  from  the  outside. 

"There  they  are!"  cried  Marjory,  flying  to  her  hus 
band's  side.  "What  are  we  to  do?" 

"You  mean,  what  are  they  to  do?  We're  mar 
ried,  and  they  can't  get  around  that,  you  know. 
Let  'em  come!"  cried  the  groom  exultantly.  "You 
don't  regret  it,  do  you,  sweetheart?"  quite  anxiously. 


3  8         The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

She  smiled  up  into  his  eyes,  and  he  felt  very 
secure. 

"What  do  you  fellows  want?"  demanded  Crosby 
from  the  window.  Anderson  Crow  was  standing  on 
the  river  bank  like  a  true  Napoleon,  flanked  by  three 
trusty  riflemen. 

"Who  air  you  ?"  asked  Anderson  in  return.  He  was 
panting  heavily,  and  his  legs  trembled. 

"None  of  your  business !  Get  off  these  grounds  at 
once ;  they're  private !" 

"None  o'  your  sass,  now,  young  man;  I'm  an 
officer  of  the  law,  an'  a  detective  to  boot!  We 
sha'n't  stand  any  nonsense.  The  place  is  surrounded 
and  he  can't  escape!  Where  is  he?" 

"That's  for  you  to  find  out  if  you're  such  a  good 
detective!  This  is  David  Bracken's  place,  and  you 
can  find  him  at  his  home  on  the  hilltop  yonder!" 

"Ask  him  what  we've  done,  George,"  whispered 
Barnes. 

"We  ain't  after  Mr.  Bracken,  young  feller,  but  you 
know  what  we  do  want!  He's  in  there — you're 
shielding  him — we  won't  parley  much  longer !  Send 
him  out!"  said  Anderson  Crow. 

"If  you  come  a  foot  nearer  you'll  get  shot  into  the 
middle  of  kingdom  come!"  shouted  Crosby  defiantly. 

The  inmates  gasped,  for  there  was  not  a  firearm  on 
the  place. 

"Be  careful!"  warned  the  Reverend  "Jimmy" 
nervously. 

"Coin'  to  resist,  eh?  Well,  we'll  get  him;  don't 
you  worry;  an'  that  ornery  female  o'  hisn',  too!" 


Anderson  Rectifies  an  Error  39 

"Did  you  hear  that?"  exclaimed  Jack  Barnes.  "Let 
me  get  at  the  old  rat."  He  was  making  for  the  door 
when  the  two  women  obstructed  the  way.  Both  were 
frantic  with  fear. 

"But  he  called  you  a  female!"  roared  he. 

"Well,  I  am!"  she  wailed  miserably. 

"Who  is  it  you  want?"  asked  Crosby  from  the 
window. 

"That's  all  right,"  roared  Anderson  Crow;  "pur- 
duce  him  at  once !" 

"Is  this  the  fellow?"  and  Crosby  dragged  the  Rev 
erend  "Jimmy"  into  view.  There  was  a  moment's 
inspection  of  the  cadaverous  face,  and  then  the  sleuths 
shook  their  heads. 

"Not  on  your  life!"  said  Mr.  Crow.  "But  he's  in 
there — Ike  Smalley  seen  him  an'  his  paramount  go  up 
the  steps  from  the  landin' !  'Twon't  do  no  good  ta 
hide  him,  young  feller;  he's " 

"Well,  let  me  tell  you  something.  You  are  too  late 
— they're  married !"  cried  Crosby  triumphantly. 

"I  don't  give  a  cuss  if  they're  married  and  have  six 
teen  children!"  shouted  the  exasperated  Crow,  his 
badge  fairly  dancing.  "He's  got  to  surrender!" 

"Oh,  he  does,  eh?" 

"Yes,  sir-ee-o-bob ;  he's  got  to  give  up,  dead  or  alive  I 
Trot  him  out  lively,  now!" 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  Mr.  Barnes  is  here; 
but  I'd  like  to  know  why  you're  hunting  him  down 
like  a  wild  beast,  shooting  at  him  and  Miss — I  mean 
Mrs.  Barnes.  It's  an  outrage !" 

"Oh,  we  ain't  the  on'y  people  that  can  kill  and 


40          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

slaughter  1  She's  just  as  bad  as  he  is,  for  that  matter 
—an'  so  are  you  and  that  other  lantern-jawed  outlaw 
in  there."  The  Reverend  "Jimmy"  gasped  and 

turned  a  fiery  red. 

"Did  he  call  me  a  — 
say!"  and  he  pushed 
Crosby  aside.  "I'd 
have  you  to  under 
stand  that  I'm  a 
minister  of  the  gos 
pel  —  I  am  the  Rev 
erend  James  Bracken, 


of- 

A  roar  of  laughter 
greeted  his  attempt 
to  explain;  and  there 
were  a  few  remarks 
so  uncomplimentary 
that  the  man  of  cloth 
sank  back  in  sheer  hopelessness. 

"Well,  I'll  give  them  reason  to  think  that  I'm  some 
thing  of  a  desperado,"  grated  the  Reverend 
"Jimmy,"  squaring  his  shoulders.  "If  they  attempt 
to  put  foot  inside  my  uncle's  house  I'll  —  I'll  smash 
a  few  heads." 

"Bravo!"  cried  Mrs.  Crosby.  She  was  his  cousin, 
and  up  to  that  time  had  had  small  regard  for  her 
mild-mannered  relative. 

"He  can  preach  the  funeral  !"  shouted  Ike  Smalley. 

By  this  time  there  were  a  dozen  men  on  the  bank  below. 

"I  give  you  fair  warning,"  cried  Anderson  Crow 


Anderson  Rectifies  an  Error  41 

impressively.  "We're  goin'  to  surround  the  house, 
an'  we'll  take  that  rascal  if  we  have  to  shoot  the 
boards  into  sawdust!" 

"But  what  has  he  done,  except  to  get 
married?"  called  Crosby  as  the  posse  be 
gan  to  spread  out. 

"Do  you  s'pose 
I'm  fool  enough  to 
tell  you  if  you  donV 


know?"    said   An 
derson  Crow.  "Just 
as  like  as  not  you'd 
be      claimin'      the  i 
thousand    dollars  \ 
reward     if    you  s 
knowed  it  had  been  | 
offered!    Spread 
out,  boys,  an'  we'll  show  'em  dern  quick!" 

There  was  dead  silence  inside  the  house  for  a  full 
minute.  Every  eye  was  wide  and  every  mouth  was 
open  in  surprise  and  consternation. 

"A  thousand  dollars  reward!"  gasped  Jack  Barnes. 
"Then,  good  Lord,  I  must  have  done  something!" 

"What  have  you  been  doing,  Jack  Barnes?"  cried 
his  bride,  aghast. 


42          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"I  must  have  robbed  a  train,"  said  he  dejectedly. 

"Well,  this  is  serious,  after  all,"  said  Crosby.  "It's 
not  an  eloper  they're  after,  but  a  desperado." 

"A  kidnaper,  perhaps,"  suggested  his  wife. 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  demanded  Jack  Barnes. 

"First,  old  man,  what  have  you  actually  done?" 
asked  the  Reverend  "Jimmy." 

"Nothing  that's  worth  a  thousand  dollars,  I'm  dead 
sure,"  said  Barnes  positively.  "By  George,  Marjory, 
this  is  a  nice  mess  I've  led  you  into !" 

"It's  all  right,  Jack;  I'm  happier  than  I  ever  was 
before  in  my  life.  We  ran  away  to  get  married,  and 
I'll  go  to  jail  with  you  if  they'll  take  me." 

"This  is  no  time  for  kissing,"  objected  Crosby 
sourly.  "We  must  find  out  what  it  all  means.  Leave 
it  to  me." 

It  was  getting  dark  in  the  room,  and  the  shadows 
were  heavy  on  the  hills.  While  the  remaining  mem 
bers  of  the  besieged  party  sat  silent  and  depressed 
upon  the  casks  and  boxes,  Crosby  stood  at  the  window 
calling  to  the  enemy. 

"Is  he  ready  to  surrender?"  thundered  Anderson 
Crow  from  the  shadows. 

Then  followed  a  brief  and  entirely  unsatisfactory, 
dialogue  between  the  two  spokesmen.  Anderson 
Crow  was  firm  in  his  decision  that  the  fugitive  did 
not  have  to  be  told  what  he  had  done;  and  George 
Crosby  was  equally  insistent  that  he  had  to  be  told 
before  he  could  decide  whether  he  was  guilty  or 
innocent. 

"We'll  starve  him  out !"  said  Anderson  Crow. 


Anderson  Rectifies  an  Error  43 

"But  there  are  ladies  here,  my  good  man;  you  won't 
subject  them  to  such  treatment!" 

"You're  all  of  a  kind — we're  going  to  take  the  whole 
bunch!" 

"What  do  you  think  will  happen  to  you  if  you  are 
mistaken  in  your  man?" 

"We're  not  mistaken,  dang  ye!" 

"He  could  sue  you  for  every  dollar  you  possess.  I 
know,  for  I'm  a  lawyer!" 

"Now,  I'm  sure  you're  in  the  job  with  him.  I 
s'pose  you'll  try  to  work  in  the  insanity  dodge !  It's 
a  nest  of  thieves  and  robbers !  Say,  I'll  give  you  five 
minutes  to  surrender;  if  you  don't,  we'll  set  fire  to  the 
derned  shanty!" 

"Look  here,  boys,"  said  Jack  Barnes  suddenly,  "I've 
done  nothing  and  am  not  afraid  to  be  arrested.  I'm 
going  to  give  myself  up."  Of  course  there  was  a 
storm  of  protest  and  a  flow  of  tears,  but  the  culprit 
was  firm.  "Tell  the  old  fossil  that  if  he'll  guarantee 
safety  to  me  I'll  give  up!" 

Anderson  was  almost  too  quick  in  promising  pro 
tection. 

"Ask  him  if  he  will  surrender  and  make  a  confession 
to  me — I  am  Anderson  Crow,  sir!"  was  the  marshal's 
tactful  suggestion. 

"He'll  do  both,  Mr.  Crow!"  replied  Crosby. 

"We've  got  to  take  the  whole  bunch  of  you,  young 
man.  You're  all  guilty  of  conspiracy,  the  whole  ca 
boodle!" 

"But  the  ladies,  you  darned  old  Rube — they 
can't " 


44         The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Looky  here,  young  feller,  you  can't  dictate  to  me. 
I'll  have  you  to " 

"We'll  all  go !"  cried  Mrs.  Crosby  warmly. 

"To  the  very  end!"  added  the  new  Mrs.  Barnes. 

"What  will  your  father  say?"  demanded  the  groom. 

"He'll  disown  me  anyway,  dear,  so  what's  the 
difference?" 

"It's  rather  annoying  for  a  minister — "  began  the 
Reverend  "Jimmy,"  putting  on  his  hat. 

"We'll  beg  off  for  you!"  cried  Mrs.  Crosby  iron 
ically. 

"But  I'm  going  to  jail,  too,"  finished  he  grimly. 

"All  right,"  called  Crosby  from  the  window;  "here 
we  come!" 

And  forth  marched  the  desperate  quintet,  three 
strapping  young  men  and  two  very  pretty  and  nervous 
young  women.  They  were  met  by  Anderson  Crow 
and  a  dozen  armed  men  from  Tinkletown,  every  one 
of  them  shaking  in  his  boots.  The  irrepressible  Mrs. 
Crosby  said  "Boo!"  suddenly,  and  half  the  posse 
jumped  as  though  some  one  had  thrown  a  bomb  at 
them. 

"Now,  I  demand  an  explanation  of  this  outrage," 
said  Jack  Barnes  savagely.  "What  do  you  mean  by 
shooting  at  me  and  my — my  wife  and  arresting  us, 
and  all  that?" 

"You'll  find  out  soon  enough  when  you're  strung 
up  fer  it,"  snarled  Anderson  Crow.  "An'  you'll 
please  hand  over  that  money  I  paid  fer  the  hoss  and 
buggy.  I'll  learn  you  how  to  sell  stolen  property 
to  me." 


Anderson  Rectifies  an  Error  45 

"Oh,  I'm  a  horse-thief,  am  I?  This  is  rich. 
And  they'll  string  me  up,  eh?  Next  thing  you'll 
be  accusing  me  of  killing  that  farmer  up  near  Boggs 
City." 

"Well,  by  gosh!  you're  a  cool  one!"  ejaculated 
Anderson  Crow.  "I  s'pose  you're  goin'  ter  try  the 
insanity  dodge." 

"It's  lucky  for  me  that  they  caught  him,"  said 
Barnes  as  the  herd  of  prisoners  moved  off  toward  the 
string  of  boats  tied  to  Mr.  Bracken's  wharf. 

"Come  off!"  exclaimed  Squires,  the  reporter,  scorn 
fully.  "We're  onto  you,  all  right,  all  right." 

"What !  Do  you  think  I'm  the  man  who — well, 
holy  mackerel !  Say,  you  gravestones,  don't  you  ever 
hear  any  news  out  here  ?  Wake  up !  They  caught 
the  murderer  at  Billsport,  not  more  than  five  miles 
from  your  jay  burg.  I  was  driving  through  the  town 
when  they  brought  him  in.  That's  what  made  me 
late,  dear,"  turning  to  Marjory. 

"Yes,  and  I'll  bet  my  soul  that  here  comes  some  one 
with  the  news,"  cried  George  Crosby,  who  had  heard 
nothing  of  the  tragedy  until  this  instant. 

A  rowboat  containing  three  men  was  making  for  the 
landing.  Somehow,  Anderson  Crow  and  his  posse 
felt  the  ground  sinking  beneath  them.  Not  a  man 
uttered  a  sound  until  one  of  the  newcomers  called  out 
from  the  boat: 

"Is  Anderson  Crow  there?" 

"Yes,  sir;  what  is  it?"  demanded  Crow  in  a  wobbly 
voice. 

"Your  wife  wants  to  know  when  in  thunder  you're 


46          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

comin'  home."  By  this  time  the  skiff  was  bumping 
against  the  landing. 

"You  tell  her  to  go  to  Halifax!"  retorted  Anderson 
Crow.  "Is  that  all  you  want?" 

"They  nabbed  that  murderer  up  to  Billsport  long 
'bout  'leven  o'clock,"  said  Alf  Reesling,  the  town 
drunkard.  "We  thought  we'd  row  down  and  tell 
you  so's  you  wouldn't  be  huntin'  all  night  for  the 
feller  who — hello,  you  got  him,  eh?" 

"Are  you  fellers  lyin'  ?"  cried  poor  Anderson  Crow. 


Anderson  Rectifies  an  Error  47 

"Not  on  your  life.  We  knowed  about  the  captcher 
over  in  town  just  about  half  an  hour  after  you  started 
'cross  the  river  this  afternoon." 

"You — four  hours  ago?  You — you "  sputtered 

the  marshal.  "An'  why  didn't  you  let  us  know  afore 
this?" 

"There  was  a  game  o'  baseball  in  Hasty's  lot, 
an' "  began  one  of  the  newcomers  sheepishly. 

"Well,  I'll  be  gosh-whizzled !"  gasped  Anderson 
Crow,  sitting  down  suddenly. 

An  hour  and  a  half  later  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Ethel- 
bert  Barnes  were  driven  up  to  Judge  Brewster's 
country  place  in  Mr.  David  Bracken's  brake.  They 
were  accompanied  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Crosby, 
and  were  carrying  out  the  plans  as  outlined  in  the 
original  programme. 

"Where's  papa?"  Marjory  tremulously  inquired  of 
the  footman  in  the  hallway. 

"He's  waitin'  for  you  in  the  library,  miss — I  should 
say  Mrs.  Barnes,"  replied  the  man,  a  trace  of  excite 
ment  in  his  face. 

"Mrs.  Barnes!"  exclaimed  four  voices  at  once. 

"Who  told  you,  William?"  cried  Marjory,  leaning 
upon  Jack  for  support. 

"A  Mr.  Anderson  Crow  was  here  not  half  an  hour 
ago,  ma'am,  to  assure  Mr.  Brewster  as  to  how  his 
new  son-in-law  was  in  nowise  connected  with  the 
murder  up  the  way.  He  said  as  how  he  had  person 
ally  investigated  the  case,  miss — ma'am,  and  Mr. 
Brewster  could  rely  on  his  word  for  it,  Mr.  Jack  was 


48          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

not  the  man.  He  told  him  as  how  you  was  married 
at  the  boathouse." 

"Yes — and  then?"  cried  Marjory  eagerly. 

"Mr.  Brewster  said  that  Mr.  Jack  wasn't  born  to 
be  hanged,  and  for  me  to  have  an  extry  plate  laid 
at  the  table  for  him  to-night,"  concluded  William 
with  an  expressive  grin. 


CHAPTER  V 


IT  was  midnight  in  Tinkletown,  many  months  after 
the  events  mentioned  in  the  foregoing  chapters,  and 
a  blizzard  was  raging.  The  February  wind  rasped 
through  the  bare  trees,  shrieked  around  the  corners 
of  lightless  houses  and  whipped  its  way  through  the 
scurrying  snow  with  all  the  rage  of  a  lion.  The  snow, 
on  account  of  the  bitter  cold  in  the  air,  did  not  fly  in 
big  flakes,  but  whizzed  like  tiny  bullets,  cutting  the 
flesh  of  men  and  beasts  like  the  sting  of  wasps.  It 
was  a  good  night  to  be  indoors  over  a  roaring  fire  or 
in  bed  between  extra  blankets.  No  one,  unless  com 
manded  by  emergency,  had  the  temerity  to  be  abroad 
that  night. 

The  Crow  family  snoozed  comfortably  in  spite  of 
the  calliope  shrieks  of  the  wind.  The  home  of  the 
town  marshal  wras  blanketed  in  peace  and  the  wind 
had  no  terrors  for  its  occupants.  They  slept  the  sleep 
of  the  toasted.  The  windows  may  have  rattled  a 
bit,  perhaps,  and  the  shutters  may  have  banged  a 
trifle  too  remorselessly,  but  the  Crows  were  not  to  be 
disturbed. 

The  big,  old-fashioned  clock  in  the  hall  downstairs 
was  striking  twelve  when  Anderson  Crow  awoke  with 
a  start.  He  was  amazed,  for  to  awake  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  was  an  unheard-of  proceeding  for  him. 


50          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

He  caught  the  clang  of  the  last  five  strokes  from  the 
clock,  however,  and  was  comforting  himself  with  the 
belief  that  it  was  five  o'clock,  after  all,  when  his  wife 
stirred  nervously. 

"Are  you  awake,  Anderson?"  she  asked  softly. 

"Yes,  Eva,  and  it's  about  time  to  get  up.  It  jest 
struck  five.  Doggone,  it's  been  blowin'  cats  and  dogs 
outside,  ain't  it?"  he  yawned. 


"Five?  It's  twelve — now,  don't  tell  me  you 
counted  the  strokes,  because  I  did  myself.  Ain't  it 
queer  we  should  both  git  awake  at  this  unearthly 
hour?" 

"Well,"  murmured  he  sleepily  now  that  it  was  not 
five  o'clock,  "it's  a  mighty  good  hour  to  go  back  to 
sleep  ag'in,  I  reckon." 

"I  thought  I  heard  a  noise  outside,"  she  persisted. 


The  Babe  on  the  Doorstep  51 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  he  said,  chuckling.  "It's  been 
out  there  all  night." 

"I  mean  something  besides  the  wind.  Sounded  like 
some  one  walkin'  on  the  front  porch." 

"Now,  look  here,  Eva,  you  ain't  goin'  to  git  me  out 
there  in  this  blizzard — in  my  stockin'  feet — lookin' 
fer  robbers " 

"Just  the  same,  Anderson,  I'm  sure  I  heard  some 
one.  Mebby  it's  some  poor  creature  freezin'  an'  in 
distress.  If  I  was  you,  I'd  go  and  look  out  there. 
Please  do." 

"Doggone,  Eva,  if  you  was  me  you'd  be  asleep  instid 
of  huntin'  up  trouble  on  a  night  like  this.  They  ain't 
nothin'  down  there  an'  you — but,  by  cracky !  mebby* 
you're  right.  Supposin'  there  is  some  poor  cuss  out 
there  huntin'  a  place  to  sleep.  I'll  go  and  look;"  and 
Mr.  Crow,  the  most  tender-hearted  man  in  the  world, 
crawled  shiveringly  but  quickly  from  the  warm  bed. 
In  his  stocking  feet — Anderson  slept  in  his  socks  on 
those  bitter  nights — he  made  his  way  down  the  front 
stairs,  grumbling  but  determined.  Mrs.  Crow  fol 
lowed  close  behind,  anxious  to  verify  the  claim  that 
routed  him  from  his  nest. 

"It  may  be  a  robber,"  she  chattered,  as  he  pulled 
aside  a  front  window  curtain.  Anderson  drew  back 
hastily. 

"Well,  why  in  thunder  didn't  you  say  so  be 
fore?"  he  gasped.  "Doggone,  Eva,  that's  no  way 
to  do !  He  might  'a'  fired  through  the  winder  at 
me." 

"But  he's  in  the  house  by  this  time,  if  it  was  a  rob- 


5  2          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

her,"  she  whispered.  "He  wouldn't  stand  out  on  the 
porch  all  night." 

"That's  right,"  he  whispered  in  reply.  "You're  a 
good  deducer,  after  all.  I  wish  I  had  my  dark  lantern. 
Thunderation !"  He  stubbed  his  toe  against  the  sew 
ing  machine.  There  is  nothing  that  hurts  more  than 
unintentional  contact  with  a  sewing  machine.  "Why 
in  sixty  don't  you  light  a  light,  Eva?  How  can 
I " 

"Listen!"  she  whispered  shrilly.  "Hear  that? 
Anderson,  there's  some  one  walkin'  on  the  porch!" 

" 'y  gosh!"  faltered  he.  "Sure  as  Christmas !  You 
wait  here,  Eva,  till  I  go  upstairs  an'  put  on  my  badge 
and  I'll " 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  don't  ketch  me 
stayin'  down  here  alone,"  and  she  grabbed  the  back 
of  his  nightshirt  as  he  started  for  the  stairs. 

"Sho!  What  air  you  afeerd  of?  I'll  get  my  re 
volver,  too.  I  never  did  see  such  a  coward'y  calf 


as- 


Just  then  there  was  a  tremendous  pounding  on  the 
front  door,  followed  by  the  creaking  of  footsteps  on 
the  frozen  porch,  a  clatter  down  the  steps,  and  then 
the  same  old  howling  of  the  wind.  The  Crows  jumped 
almost  out  of  their  scanty  garments,  and  then  settled 
down  as  if  frozen  to  the  spot.  It  was  a  full  minute  be 
fore  Anderson  found  his  voice — in  advance  of  Mrs. 
Crow  at  that,  which  was  more  than  marvellous. 

"What  was  that?"  he  chattered. 

"A  knock!"  she  gasped. 

"Some  neighbour's  sick." 


The  Babe  on  the  Doorstep  5  3 

"Old  Mrs.  Luce.  Oh,  goodness,  how  my  heart's 
going!" 

"Why  don't  you  open  the  door,  Eva?" 

"Why  don't  you?     It's  your  place." 

"But,  doggone  it,  cain't  you  see — I  mean  feel — that 
I  ain't  got  hardly  any  clothes  on  ?  I'd  ketch  my  death 
o'  cold,  an'  besides " 

"Well,  I  ain't  got  as  much  on  as  you  have.  You 
got  socks  on  an' " 

"But  supposin'  it's  a  woman,"  protested  he.  "You 
wouldn't  want  a  woman  to  see  me  lookin'  like  this, 
would  you?  Go  ahead  an' " 

"I  suppose  you'd  like  to  have  a  man  see  me  like 
this.  I  ain't  used  to  receivin'  men  in — but,  say,  who 
ever  it  was,  is  gone.  Didn't  you  hear  the  steps? 
Open  the  door,  Anderson.  See  what  it  is." 

And  so,  after  much  urging,  Anderson  Crow  un 
bolted  his  front  door  and  turned  the  knob.  The  wind 
did  the  rest.  It  almost  blew  the  door  off  its  hinges, 
carrying  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crow  back  against  the  wall. 
A  gale  of  snow  swept  over  them. 

"Gee!"  gasped  Anderson,  crimping  his  toes.  Mrs. 
Crow  was  peering  under  his  arm. 

"Look  there!"  she  cried.  Close  to  the  door  a  large 
bundle  was  lying. 

"A  present  from  some  one!"  speculated  Mr.  Crow; 
but  some  seconds  passed  before  he  stooped  to  pick  it 
up.  "Funny  time  fer  Santy  to  be  callin'  'round. 
Wonder  if  he  thinks  it's  next  Christmas." 

"Be  careful,  Anderson;  mebby  it's  an  infernal  ma 
chine!"  cried  his  wife. 


54          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Well,  it's  loaded,  'y  ginger,"  he  grunted  as  he 
straightened  up  in  the  face  of  the  gale.  "Shut  the 
door,  Eva  !  Cain't  you  see  it's  snowin'  ?" 

"I'll  bet  it  was  Joe  Ramsey  leavin'  a  sack  o'  hickor' 
nuts  fer  us,"  she  said  eagerly,  slamming  the  door. 

"You  better  bolt  the  door.  He  might  change  his 
mind  an'  come  back  fer  'em,"  observed  her  husband. 
"It  don't  feel  like  hickor'  nuts.  Why,  Eva,  it's  a 
baskit — a  reg'lar  clothes  baskit.  What  in  thunder 
do " 

"Let's  get  a  light  out  by  the  kitchen  fire.  It's  too 
cold  in  here." 

Together  they  sped  to  the  kitchen  with  the  mysteri 
ous  offering  from  the  blizzard.  There  was  a  fire  in 
the  stove,  which  Anderson  replenished,  while  Eva  be 
gan  to  remove  the  blankets  and  packing  from  the 
basket,  which  she  had  placed  on  the  hearth.  Ander 
son  looked  on  eagerly. 

"Lord!"  fell  from  the  lips  of  both  as  the  contents 
of  the  basket  were  exposed  to  their  gaze. 

A  baby,  alive  and  warm,  lay  packed  in  the  blankets, 
sound  asleep  and  happy.  For  an  interminable  length 
of  time  the  Crows,  en  dishabille,  stood  and  gazed 
open-mouthed  and  awed  at  the  little  stranger.  Ten 
minutes  later,  after  the  ejaculations  and  surmises, 
after  the  tears  and  expletives,  after  the  whole  house 
had  been  aroused,  Anderson  Crow  was  plunging 
amiably  but  aimlessly  through  the  snowstorm  in 
search  of  the  heartless  wretch  who  had  deposited  the 
infant  on  his  doorstep.  His  top  boots  scuttled  up  and 
down  the  street,  through  yards  and  barn  lots  for  an 


"A     BABY,     ALIVE    AND     WARM,     LAY    PACKED    IN     THE    BLANKETS  " 


The  Babe  on  the  Doorstep  55 

hour,  but  despite  the  fact  that  he  carried  his  dark 
lantern  and  trailed  like  an  Indian  bloodhound,  he 
found  no  trace  of  the  wanton  visitor.  In  the  mean 
time,  Mrs.  Crow,  assisted  by  the  entire  family,  had 
stowed  the  infant,  a  six-weeks-old  girl,  into  a  warm 
bed,  ministering  to  the  best  of  her  ability  to  its  meagre 
but  vociferous  wants.  There  was  no  more  sleep  in 
the  Crow  establishment  that  night.  The  head  of  the 
house  roused  a  half  dozen  neighbours  from  their  beds 

to  tell  them  of  the  as 
tounding  occurrence, 
with  the  perfectly  nat 
ural  result  that  one  and 
all  hurried  over  to  see 
the  baby  and  to  hear 
the  particulars. 

Early  next  morning 
Tinkletown  wagged 
with  an  excitement  so 
violent  that  it  threat 
ened  to  end  in  a  munici 
pal  convulsion.  Ander 
son  Crow's  home  was 
besieged.  The  snow 
in  his  front  yard  was 
packed  to  an  icy  con 
sistency  by  the  myriad 
of  footprints  that  fell 
upon  it;  the  interior 
of  the  house  was 
"tracked"  with  mud 


56          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

and  slush  and  three  window  panes  were  broken 
by  the  noses  of  curious  but  unwelcome  spectators. 
Altogether,  it  was  a  sensation  unequalled  in  the  his 
tory  of  the  village.  Through  it  all  the  baby  blinked 
and  wept  and  cooed  in  perfect  peace,  guarded  by 
Mrs.  Crow  and  the  faithful  progeny  who  had  been 
left  by  the  stork,  and  not  by  a  mysterious  stranger. 

The  missionary  societies  wanted  to  do  something 
heroic,  but  Mrs.  Crow  headed  them  off;  the  sewing 
circle  got  ready  to  take  charge  of  affairs,  but  Mrs. 
Crow  punctured  the  project;  figuratively,  the  churches 
ached  for  a  chance  to  handle  the  infant,  but  Mrs. 
Crow  stood  between.  And  all  Tinkletown  called 
upon  Anderson  Crow  to  solve  the  mystery  before  it 
was  a  day  older. 

"It's  purty  hard  to  solve  a  mystery  that's  got  six 
weeks'  start  o'  me,"  said  Anderson  despairingly,  "but 
I'll  try,  you  bet.  The  doggone  thing's  got  a  parent 
or  two  somewhere  in  the  universe,  an'  I'll  locate  'em 
er  explode  somethin'.  I've  got  a  private  opinion 
about  it  myself." 

Whatever  this  private  opinion  might  have  been,  it 
was  not  divulged.  Possibly  something  in  connection 
with  it  might  have  accounted  for  the  temporary 
annoyance  felt  by  nearly  every  respectable  woman  in 
Tinkletown.  The  marshal  eyed  each  and  every  one 
of  them,  irrespective  of  position,  condition  or  age, 
with  a  gleam  so  accusing  that  the  Godliest  of  them 
flushed  and  then  turned  cold.  So  knowing  were  these 
equitable  looks  that  before  night  every  woman  in  the 
village  was  constrained  to  believe  the  worst  of  her 


The  Babe  on  the  Doorstep  57 

neighbour,  and  almost  as  ready  to  look  with  suspicion 
upon  herself. 

One  thing  was  certain — business  was  at  a  standstill 
in  Tinkletown.  The  old  men  forgot  their  chess  and 
checker  games  at  the  corner  store;  young  men  neg 
lected  their  love  affairs;  women  forgot  to  talk  about 
each  other ;  children  froze  their  ears  rather  than  miss 
any  of  the  talk  that  went  about  the  wintry  streets; 
everybody  was  asking  the  question,  "Whose  baby 
is  it?" 

But  the  greatest  sensation  of  all  came  late  in  the  day 
when  Mrs.  Crow,  in  going  over  the  garments  worn 
by  the  babe,  found  a  note  addressed  to  Anderson 
Crow.  It  was  stitched  to  the  baby's  dress,  and  proved 
beyond  question  that  the  strange  visitor  of  the  night 
before  had  selected  not  only  the  house,  but  the  indi 
vidual.  The  note  was  to  the  point.  It  said: 

"February  18,  1883. 

"ANDERSON  CROW:  To  your  good  and  merciful 
care  an  unhappy  creature  consigns  this  helpless  though 
well-beloved  babe.  All  the  world  knows  you  to  be  a 
tender,  loving,  unselfish  man  and  father.  The  writer 
humbly,  prayerfully  implores  you  to  care  for  this 
babe  as  you  would  for  one  of  your  own.  It  is  best 
that  her  origin  be  kept  a  secret.  Care  for  her,  cherish 
her  as  your  own,  and  at  the  end  of  each  year  the  sum 
of  a  thousand  dollars  will  be  paid  to  you  as  long 
as  she  lives  in  your  household  as  a  member  thereof. 
Do  not  seek  to  find  her  parents.  It  would  be  a  fool's 
errand.  May  God  bless  you  and  yours,  and  may 
God  care  for  and  protect  Rosalie — the  name  she  shall 
bear." 


58          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Obviously,  there  was  no  signature  and  absolutely  no 
clew  to  the  identity  of  the  writer.  Two  telegraph 
line  repairers  who  had  been  working  near  Crow's 
house  during  the  night,  repairing  damage  done  by  the 
blizzard,  gave  out  the  news  that  they  had  seen  a 
cloaked  and  mysterious-looking  woman  standing  near 
the  Methodist  Church  just  before  midnight,  evidently 
disregarding  the  rage  of  the  storm.  The  sight  was 
so  unusual  that  the  men  paused  and  gazed  at  her  for 
several  minutes.  One  of  them  was  about  to  approach 
her  when  she  turned  and  fled  down  the  side  street 
near  by. 

"Was  she  carryin'  a  big  bundle?"  asked  Anderson 
Crow. 

The  men  replied  in  the  negative. 

"Then  she  couldn't  have  been  the  party  wanted. 
The  one  we're  after  certainly  had  a  big  bundle." 

"But,  Mr.  Crow,  isn't  it  possible  that  these  men 
saw  her  after  she  left  the  basket  at — "  began  the 
Presbyterian  minister. 

"That  ain't  the -way  I  deduce  it,"  observed  the  town 
detective  tartly.  "In  the  first  place,  she  wouldn't  'a' 
been  standin'  'round  like  that  if  the  job  was  over, 
would  she?  Wouldn't  she  'a'  been  streakin'  out  fer 
home?  'Course  she  would." 

"She  may  have  paused  near  the  church  to  see 
whether  you  took  the  child  in,"  persisted  the  divine. 

"But  she  couldn't  have  saw  my  porch  from  the  back 
end  of  the  church." 

"Nobody  said  she  was  standing  back  of  the  church," 
said  the  lineman. 


The  Babe  on  the  Doorstep  59 

"What's  that?  You  don't  mean  it?"  cried  Ander 
son,  pulling  out  of  a  difficulty  bravely.  "That  makes 
all  the  difference  in  the  world.  Why  didn't  you  say 
she  was  in  front  of  the  church?  Cain't  you  see  we've 
wasted  time  here  jest  because  you  didn't  have  sense 
'nough  to " 

"Anybody  ought  to  know  it  'thout  being  told,  you 
old  Rube,"  growled  the  lineman,  who  was  from 
Boggs  City. 

"Here,  now,  sir,  that  will  do  you !  I  won't  'low  no 
man  to " 

"Anderson,  be  quiet!"  cautioned  Mrs.  Crow. 
"You'll  wake  the  baby!"  This  started  a  new  train 
of  thought  in  Anderson's  perplexed  mind. 

"Mebby  she  was  waitin'  there  while  some  one — her 
husband,  fer  instance — was  leavin'  the  baskit,"  vol 
unteered  Isaac  Porter  humbly. 

"Don't  bother  me,  Ike;  I'm  thinkin'  of  somethin' 
else,"  muttered  Anderson.  "Husband  nothin' !  Do 
you  s'pose  she'd  'a'  trusted  that  baby  with  a  fool 
husband  on  a  terrible  night  like  that?  Ladies  and 
gentlemen,  this  here  baby  was  left  by  a  female  resi 
dent  of  this  very  town."  His  hearers  gasped  and 
looked  at  him  wide-eyed.  "If  she  has  a  husband, 
he  don't  know  he's  the  father  of  this  here  baby. 
Don't  you  see  that  a  woman  couldn't  'a'  carried  a 
heavy  baskit  any  great  distance?  She  couldn't  'a* 
packed  it  from  Boggs  City  er  New  York  er  Balti 
more,  could  she?  She  wouldn't  'a'  been  strong 
enough.  No,  siree;  she  didn't  have  far  to  come, 
folks.  An'  she  was  a  woman,  'cause  ain't  all  type- 


60          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

writin'  done  by  women  ?  You  don't  hear  of  men  type 
writers,  do  you  ?  People  wouldn't  have  'em.  Now, 
the  thing  fer  me  to  do  first  is  to  make  a  house-to- 
house  search  to  see  if  I  c'n  locate  a  typewritin'  ma 
chine  anywheres.  Get  out  of  the  way,  Toby.  Dog 
gone  you  boys,  anyhow ;  cain't  you  see  I  want  ter  get 
started  on  this  job?" 

"Say,  Anderson,"  said  Harry  Squires,  the  reporter, 
"I'd  like  to  ask  if  there  is  any  one  in  Tinkletown,  male 
or  female,  who  can  afford  to  pay  you  a  thousand  dol 
lars  a  year  for  taking  care  of  that  kid?" 

"What's  that?"  slowly  oozed  from  Anderson's  lips. 

"You  heard  what  I  said.  Say,  don't  you  know  you 
can  bring  up  a  kid  in  this  town  for  eleven  or  twelve 
dollars  a  year?" 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talkin'  about,"  burst 
from  Anderson's  indignant  lips,  but  he  found  instant 
excuse  to  retire  from  the  circle  of  speculators.  A  few 
minutes  later  he  and  his  wife  were  surreptitiously 
re-reading  the  note,  both  filled  with  the  fear  that  it 
said  $10.00  instead  of  $1000. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Reflection  and  Deduction 

"BY  gum,  it  does  say  a  thousand,"  cried  Anderson, 
mightily  relieved.  "Harry  Squires  is  a  fool.  He 
said  jest  now  that  it  could  be  did  fer  eleven  or  twelve 
dollars.  Don't  you  suppose,  Eva,  that  the  mother  of 
this  here  child  knows  what  it  costs  to  bring  'em  up? 
Of  course  she  does.  When  I  find  her  I'll  prove  it  by 
her  own  lips  that  she  knows.  But  don't  bother  me 
any  more,  Eva ;  I  got  to  git  out  an'  track  her  down. 
This  is  the  greatest  job  I've  had  in  years." 

"See  here,  Anderson,"  said  his  wife  thoughtfully 
and  somewhat  stealthily,  "let's  go  slow  about  this 
thing.  What  do  you  want  to  find  her  for?" 

"Why — why,  doggone  it,  Eva,  what  air  you  talkin' 
about?"  began  he  in  amazement. 

"Well,  it's  just  this  v/ay:  I  don't  think  we  can  earn 
a  thousand  dollars  a  year  easier  than  takin'  care  of 
this  child.  Don't  you  see?  Suppose  we  keep  her  fer 
twenty  years.  That  means  twenty  thousand  dollars, 
don't  it?  It  beats  a  pension  all  to  pieces." 

"Well,  by  ginger!"  gasped  Anderson,  vaguely  com 
prehending.  "Fifty  years  would  mean  fifty  thousand 
dollars,  wouldn't  it  Gee  whiz,  Eva  !" 

"I  don't  imagine  we  can  keep  her  that  long." 

"No,"  reflectively;  "the  chances  are  she'd  want 
ter  git  married  inside  of  that  time.  They  always 


6  2          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"  'Tain't  that,  Anderson.  You  an'  me'd  have  to 
live  to  be  more'n  a  hundred  years  old." 

"That's  so.  We  ain't  spring  chickens,  are  we, 
deary?" 

She  put  her  hard,  bony  hand  in  his  and  there  was  a 
suspicion  of  moisture  in  the  kindly  old  eyes. 

"I  love  to  hear  you  call  me  'deary,'  Anderson.  We 
never  get  too  old  for  that." 

He  coughed  and  then  patted  her  hand  rather  con 
fusedly.  Anderson  had  long  since  forgotten  the 
meaning  of  sentiment,  but  he  was  surprised  to  find 
that  he  had  not  forgotten  how  to  love  his  wife. 

"Shucks!"  he  muttered  bravely.  "We'll  be  kissin' 
like  a  couple  of  young  jay  birds  first  thing  we  know. 
Doggone  if  it  ain't  funny  how  a  baby,  even  if  it  is 
some  one  else's,  kinder  makes  a  feller  foolisher'n  he 
intends  to  be."  Hand  in  hand  they  watched  the  sleep 
ing  innocent  for  several  minutes.  Finally  the  de 
tective  shook  himself  and  spoke : 

"Well,  Eva,  I  got  to  make  a  bluff  at  findin'  out 
whose  baby  it  is,  ain't  I  ?  My  reputation's  at  stake. 
I  jest  have  to  investigate." 

"I  don't  see  that  any  harm  can  come  from  that, 
Anderson,"  she  replied,  and  neither  appreciated  the 
sarcasm  unintentionally  involved. 

"I  won't  waste  another  minute,"  he  announced 
promptly.  "I  will  stick  to  my  theory  that  the  parents 
live  in  Tinkletown." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  snorted  Mrs.  Crow  disgustedly,  and 
then  left  him  to  cultivate  the  choleric  anger  her  ex 
clamation  had  inspired. 


Reflection  and  Deduction  63 

"Doggone,  I  wish  I  hadn't  patted  her  hand," 
he  lamented.  "She  didn't  deserve  it.  Consarn 
it,  a  woman's  always  doin'  something  to  spoil 
things." 

And  so  he  fared  forth  with  his  badges  and  stars,  bent 
on  duty,  but  not  accomplishment.  All  the  town  soon 
knew  that  he  was  following  a  clew,  but  all  the  town 
was  at  sea  concerning  its  character,  origin,  and  plausi 
bility.  A  dozen  persons  saw  him  stop  young  Mrs. 
Perkins  in  front  of  Lamson's  store,  and  the  same 
spectators  saw  his  feathers  droop  as  she  let  loose  her 
wrath  upon  his  head  and  went  away  with  her  nose  in 
the  air  and  her  cheeks  far  more  scarlet  than  when 
Boreas  kissed  them,  and  all  in  response  to  a  single 
remark  volunteered  by  the  faithful  detective.  He 
entered  Lamson's  store  a  moment  later,  singularly 
abashed  and  red  in  the  face. 

"Doggone,"  he  observed,  seeing  that  an  explanation 
was  expected,  "she  might  'a'  knowed  I  was  only 
foolin'." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  had  Alf  Reesling,  the  town 
sot,  in  a  far  corner  of  the  store  talking  to  him  in  a 
most  peremptory  fashion.  It  may  be  well  to  mention 
that  Alf  had  so  far  forgotten  himself  as  to  laugh  at 
the  marshal's  temporary  discomfiture  at  the  hands 
of  Mrs.  Perkins. 

"Alf,  have  you  been  havin'  another  baby  up  to  your 
house  without  lettin'  me  know?"  demanded  Anderson 
firmly. 

"Anderson,"  replied  Alf,  maudlin  tears  starting  in 
his  eyes,  "it's  not  kind  of  you  to  rake  up  my  feelin's 


64         The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

like  this.  You  know  I  been  a  widower  fer  three 
years." 

"I  want  you  to  understand  one  thing,  Alf  Reesling. 
A  detective  never  knows  anything  till  he  proves  it. 
Let  me  warn  you,  sir,  you  are  under  suspicion.  An' 
now,  let  me  tell  you  one  thing  more.  Doggone  your 
ornery  hide,  don't  you  ever  laugh  ag'in  like  you  did 
jest  now  er  I'll " 

Just  then  the  door  flew  open  with  a  bang  and  Edna 
Crow,  Anderson's  eldest,  almost  flopped  into  the 
store,  her  cap  in  her  hand,  eyes  starting  from  her 
head.  She  had  run  at  top  speed  all  the  way  from 
home. 

"Pop,"  she  gasped.  "Ma  says  fer  you  to  hurry 
home !  She  says  fer  you  to  run!" 

Anderson  covered  the  distance  between  Lamson's 
store  and  his  own  home  in  record  time.  Indeed, 
Edna,  flying  as  fast  as  her  slim  legs  could  twinkle, 
barely  beat  her  father  to  the  front  porch.  It  was 
quite  clear  to  Mr.  Crow  that  something  unusual  had 
happened  or  Mrs.  Crow  would  not  have  summoned 
him  so  peremptorily. 

She  was  in  the  hallway  downstairs  awaiting  his 
arrival,  visibly  agitated.  Before  uttering  a  word  she 
dragged  him  into  the  little  sitting-room  and  closed 
the  door.  They  were  alone. 

"Is  it  dead?"  he  panted. 

"No,  but  what  do  you  think,  Anderson?"  she  ques 
tioned  excitedly. 

"I  ain't  had  time  to  think.  You  don't  mean  to  say 
it  has  begun  to  talk  an'  c'n  tell  who  it  is,"  he  faltered. 


Reflection  and  Deduction  65 

"Heavens  no — an'  it  only  six  weeks  old." 

"Well,  then,  what  in  thunder  lias  happened?" 

"A  detective  has  been  here." 

"Good  gosh!" 

"Yes,  a  real  detective.  He's  out  there  in  the  kitchen 
gettin'  his  feet  warm  by  the  bake-oven.  He  says  he's 
lookin'  for  a  six-weeks-old  baby.  Anderson,  we're 
goin'  to  lose  that  twenty  thousand." 

"Don't  cry,  Eva;  mebby  we  c'n  find  another  baby 
some  day.  Has  he  seen  the — the — it?"  Anderson 
was  holding  to  the  stair-post  for  support. 

"Not  yet,  but  he  says  he  understands  we've  got 
one  here  that  ain't  been  tagged — that's  what 
he  said — 'tagged.'  What  does  he  mean  by 
that?" 

"Why — why,  don't  you  see?  Just  as  soon  as  he 
tags  it,  it's  it.  Doggone,  I  wonder  if  it  would  make 
any  legal  difference  if  I  tagged  it  first." 

"He's  a  queer-lookin'  feller,  Anderson.  Says  he's 
in  disguise,  and  he  certainly  looks  like  a  regular 
scamp." 

"I'll  take  a  look  at  him  an'  ast  fer  his  badge." 
Marshal  Crow  paraded  boldly  into  the  kitchen,  where 
the  strange  man  was  regaling  the  younger  Crows  with 
conversation  the  while  he  partook  comfortably  of  pie 
and  other  things  more  substantial. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Crow?"  he  asked  nonchalantly,  as 
Anderson  appeared  before  him. 

"I  am.     Who  are  you?" 

"I  am  Hawkshaw,  the  detective,"  responded  the 
man,  his  mouth  full  of  blackberry  pie. 


66          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Gee  whiz !"  gasped  Anderson.  "Eva,  it's  the  cele 
brated  Hawkshaw." 

"Right  you  are,  sir.     I'm  after  the  kid." 

"You'll  have  to  identify  it,"  something  inspired 
Anderson  to  say. 

"Sure.  That's  easy.  It's  the  one  that  was  left  on 
your  doorstep  last  night,"  said  the  man  glibly. 

"Well,  I  guess  you're  right,"  began  Anderson  dis 
consolately. 

"Boy  or  girl?"  demanded  Mrs.  Crow,  shrewdly  and 
very  quickly.  She  had  been  inspecting  the  man  more 


Reflection  and  Deduction  67 

closely  than  before,  and  woman's  intuition  was  telling 
her  a  truth  that  Anderson  overlooked.  Mr.  Hawk- 
shaw  was  not  only  very  seedy,  but  very  drunk. 

"Madam,"  he  responded  loftily,  "it  is  nothing  but 
a  mere  child." 

"I'll  give  you  jest  one  minute  to  get  out  of  this 
house,"  said  Mrs.  Crow  sharply,  to  Anderson's  con 
sternation.  "If  you're  not  gone,  I'll  douse  you  with 
this  kettle  of  scalding  water.  Open  the  back  door, 
Edna.  He  sha'n't  take  his  dirty  self  through  my 
parlour  again.  Open  that  door,  Edna!" 

Edna,  half  paralysed  with  astonishment,  opened  the 
kitchen  door  just  in  time.  Mr.  Hawkshaw  was  not 
so  drunk  but  he  could  recognise  disaster  when  it  ho 
vered  near.  As  she  lifted  the  steaming  kettle  from  the 
stove  he  made  a  flying  leap  for  the  door.  The  rush 
of  air  that  followed  him  as  he  shot  through  the  aper 
ture  almost  swept  Edna  from  her  feet.  In  ten  sec 
onds  the  tattered  Hawkshaw  was  scrambling  over  the 
garden  fence  and  making  lively  if  inaccurate  tracks 
through  last  year's  cabbage  patch. 


CHAPTER  VII 

The  Mysterious  Visitor 

THE  entire  Crow  family  watched  him  in  stupefaction 
until  he  disappeared  down  the  lane  that  led  to  Hap- 
good's  grove.  It  was  then,  and  not  until  then,  that 
Anderson  Crow  took  a  breath. 

"Good  Lord,  Eva,  wha,t  do  you  mean?"  he  gasped. 

"Mean?"  she  almost  shrieked.  "Anderson  Crow, 
didn't  you  recognise  that  feller?  He  ain't  no  more 
detective  than  you  er  me.  He's  the  self-same  tramp 
that  you  put  in  the  calaboose  last  week,  and  the  week 
before,  too.  I  thought  I'd  seen  his  ugly  face  before. 
He's " 

"Great  jumpin'  geeswax!"  roared  the  town  marshal. 
"I  recollect  him  now.  He's  the  one  that  said  he'd 
been  exposed  to  smallpox  an'  wanted  to  be  kept  where 
it  was  warm  all  winter.  Well,  I'll  be — I'll  be " 

"Don't  say  it,  pa.  He  said  it  fer  you  when  he  dumb 
over  that  barb-wire  fence  out  there,"  cried  Edna 
gleefully. 

Several  days  of  anxiety  and  energy  followed  this 
interesting  episode.  In  that  time  two  tramps  at 
tempted  to  obtain  food  and  shelter  at  Crow's  home, 
one  on  the  plea  that  he  was  the  father  of  the  unfortu 
nate  child,  the  other  as  an  officer  for  the  Foundlings' 
Home  at  Boggs  City.  Three  babies  were  left  on  the 
doorstep — two  in  one  night — their  fond  mothers  con- 


The  Mysterious  Visitor  69 

fessing  by  letters  that  they  appreciated  Anderson's 
well-known  charitable  inclinations  and  implored  him 
to  care  for  their  offspring  as  if  they  were  his  own. 
The  harassed  marshal  experienced  some  difficulty  in 
forcing  the  mothers  to  take  back  their  children. 

In  each  instance  he  was  reviled  by  the  estimable 
ladies,  all  of  whom  accused  him  of  being  utterly 
heartless.  Mrs.  Crow  came  to  his  rescue  and  told  the 
disappointed  mothers  that  the  scalding  water  was 
ready  for  application  if  they  did  not  take  their  baskets 
of  babies  away  on  short  order.  It  may  be  well  for 
the  reputation  of  Tinkletown  to  mention  that  one  of 
the  donors  was  Mrs.  Raspus,  a  negro  washerwoman 
who  did  work  for  the  "dagoes"  engaged  in  building 
the  railroad  hard  by;  another  was  the  wife  of  Antonio 
Galli,  a  member  of  the  grading  gang,  and  the  third 
was  Mrs.  Pool,  the  widow  of  a  fisherman  who  had 
recently  drowned  himself  in  drink. 

It  is  quite  possible  that  Anderson  might  have  had 
the  three  infants  on  his  hands  permanently  had  not 
the  mothers  been  so  eager  to  know  their  fate.  They 
appeared  in  person  early  the  next  morning  to  see  if 
the  babies  had  frozen  to  death  on  the  doorstep.  Mrs. 
Pool  even  went  so  far  as  to  fetch  some  extra  baby 
clothes  which  she  had  neglected  to  drop  with  her 
male.  Mrs.  Raspus  came  for  her  basket,  claiming  it 
was  the  only  one  she  had  in  which  to  "tote"  the  wash 
ing  for  the  men. 

After  these  annoying  but  enlivening  incidents 
Anderson  was  permitted  to  recover  from  his  daze  and 
to  throw  off  symptoms  of  nervous  prostration. 


jo          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Tinkletown  resumed  its  tranquil  attitude  and  the 
checker  games  began  to  thrive  once  more.  Little 
Rosalie  was  a  week  older  than  when  she  came,  but 
it  was  five  weeks  before  anything  happened  to  disturb 
the  even  tenor  of  the  foster-father's  way.  He  had 
worked  diligently  in  the  effort  to  discover  the  parents 
of  the  baby,  but  without  result.  Two  or  three  ex 
asperated  husbands  in  Tinkletown  had  threatened  to 
blow  his  brains  out  if  he  persisted  in  questioning  their 
wives  in  his  insinuating  manner,  and  one  of  the 
kitchen  girls  at  the  village  inn  threw  a  dishpan  at  him 
on  the  occasion  of  his  third  visit  of  inquiry.  A  colored 
woman  in  the  employ  of  the  Baptist  minister  denied 
that  Rosalie  was  her  child,  but  when  he  insisted, 
agreed  with  fine  sarcasm  to  "go  over  an'  have  a  look 
at  it,"  after  his  assurance  that  it  was  perfectly  white. 


"Eva,  I've  investigated  the  case  thoroughly,"  he 
said  at  last,  "an'  there  is  no  solution  to  the  mystery. 
The  only  thing  I  c'n  deduce  is  that  the  child  is  here 
an'  we'll  have  to  take  keer  of  her.  Now,  I  wonder 
if  that  woman  really  meant  it  when  she  said  we'd  have 


The  Mysterious  Visitor  j  i 

a  thousand  dollars  at  the  end  of  each  year.  Doggone, 
I  wish  the  year  was  up,  jest  to  see." 

"We'll  have  to  wait,  Anderson,  that's  all,"  said 
Mrs.  Crow.  "I  love  the  baby  so  it  can't  matter  much. 
I'm  glad  you're  through  investigatin'.  It's  been  most 
tryin'  to  me.  Half  the  women  in  town  don't  speak 
to  me." 

It  was  at  the  end  of  Rosalie's  fifth  week  as  a  mem 
ber  of  the  family  that  something  happened.  Late 
one  night  when  Anderson  opened  the  front  door  to  put 
out  the  cat  a  heavily  veiled  woman  mounted  the  steps 
and  accosted  him.  In  some  trepidation  he  drew  back 
and  would  have  closed  the  door  but  for  her  eager 
remonstrance. 

"I  must  see  you,  Mr.  Crow,"  she  cried  in  a  low,  agi 
tated  voice. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded.  She  was  dressed 
entirely  in  black. 

"I  came  to  see  you  about  the  baby." 

"That  won't  do,  madam.  There's  been  three  tramps 
here  to  hornswoggle  us  an'  I " 

"I  must  see  her,  Mr.  Crow,"  pleaded  the  stranger, 
and  he  was  struck  by  the  richness  of  her  voice. 

"Mighty  queer,  it  seems  to  me,"  he  muttered  hesi 
tatingly.  "Are  you  any  kin  to  it?" 

"I  am  very  much  interested." 

"By  giminy,  I  believe  you're  the  one  who  left  her 
here,"  cried  the  detective.  "Are  you  a  typewriter?" 

"I'll  answer  your  questions  if  you'll  allow  me  to  step 
inside.  It  is  very  cold  out  here." 

Anderson  Crow  stood  aside  and  the  tall,  black  figure 


7  2         The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

entered  the  hall.  He  led  her  to  the  warm  sitting- 
room  and  gave  her  a  chair  before  the  "base-burner." 

"Here,  Mr.  Crow,  is  an  envelope  containing  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  That  proves  my  good 
faith.  I  cannot  tell  you  who  I  am  nor  what  relation 
I  bear  to  the  baby.  I  am  quite  fully  aware  that  you 
will  not  undertake  to  detain  me,  for  it  is  not  an  easy 
matter  to  earn  a  thousand  dollars  a  year  in  this  part 
of  the  world.  I  am  going  abroad  next  week  and  do 
not  expect  to  return  for  a  long,  long  time.  Try  as  I 
would,  I  could  not  go  without  seeing  the  child.  I  will 
not  keep  you  out  of  bed  ten  minutes,  and  you  and  your 
wife  may  be  present  while  I  hold  Rosalie  in  my  arms. 
I  know  that  she  is  in  good  hands,  and  I  have  no  in 
tention  of  taking  her  away.  Please  call  Mrs.  Crow." 

Anderson  was  too  amazed  to  act  at  once.  He  began 
to  flounder  interrogatively,  but  the  visitor  abruptly 
checked  him. 

"You  are  wasting  time,  Mr.  Crow,  in  attempting 
to  question  my  authority  or  identity.  No  one  need 
know  that  I  have  made  this  visit.  You  are  perfectly 
secure  in  the  promise  to  have  a  thousand  dollars  a 
year;  why  should  you  hesitate?  As  long  as  she  lives 
with  you  the  money  is  yours.  I  am  advancing  the 
amount  you  now  hold  in  order  that  her  immediate 
wants  may  be  provided  for.  You  are  not  required 
to  keep  an  account  of  the  money  paid  to  you.  There 
are  means  of  ascertaining  at  once  whether  she  is  being 
well  cared  for  and  educated  by  you,  and  if  it  becomes 
apparent  that  you  are  not  doing  your  duty,  she  shall 
be  removed  from  your  custody.  From  time  to  time 


The  Mysterious  Visitor  73 

you  may  expect  written  instructions  from — from  one 
who  loves  her." 

"I  jest  want  to  ast  if  you  live  in  Tinkletown?" 
Anderson  managed  to  say. 

"I  do  not,"  she  replied  emphatically. 

"Well,  then,  lift  your  veil.  If  you  don't  live  here 
I  sha'n't  know  you." 

"I  prefer  to  keep  my  face  covered,  Mr.  Crow;  be 
lieve  me  and  trust  me.  Please  let  me  see  her."  The 
plea  was  so  earnest  that  Anderson's  heart  gave  a  great 
thump  of  understanding. 

"By  ginger,  you  are  her  mother!"  he  gasped.  Mrs. 
Crow  came  in  at  this  juncture,  and  she  was  much 
quicker  at  grasping  the  situation  than  her  husband. 
It  was  in  her  mind  to  openly  denounce  the  woman 
for  her  heartlessness,  but  her  natural  thriftiness  inter 
posed.  She  would  do  nothing  that  might  remove  the 
golden  spoon  from  the  family  mouth. 

The  trio  stole  upstairs  and  into  the  warm  bed 
chamber.  There,  with  Anderson  Crow  and  his  wife 
looking  on  from  a  remote  corner  of  the  room,  the 
tall  woman  in  black  knelt  beside  the  crib  that  had 
housed  a  generation  of  Crows.  The  sleeping  Rosalie 
did  not  know  of  the  soft  kisses  that  swept  her  little 
cheek.  She  did  not  feel  the  tears  that  fell  when  the 
visitor  lifted  her  veil,  nor  did  she  hear  the  whisperings 
that  rose  to  the  woman's  lips. 

"That  is  all,"  murmured  the  mysterious  stranger  at 
last,  dropping  her  veil  as  she  arose.  She  staggered 
as  she  started  for  the  door,  but  recovered  herself 
instantly.  Without  a  word  she  left  the  room,  the 


74          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Crows  following  her  down  the  stairs  in  silence.  At 
the  bottom  she  paused,  and  then  extended  her  hands 
to  the  old  couple.  Her  voice  faltered  as  she  spoke. 

"Let  me  clasp  your  hands  and  let  me  tell  you  that 
my  love  and  my  prayers  are  forever  for  you  and  for 
that  little  one  up  there.  Thank  you.  I  know  you  will 
.be  good  to  her.  She  is  well  born.  Her  blood  is  as 
good  as  the  best.  Above  all  things,  Mrs.  Crow,  she 
is  not  illegitimate.  You  may  easily  suspect  that  her 
parents  are  wealthy  or  they  could  not  pay  so  well  for 
her  care.  Some  day  the  mystery  surrounding  her  will 
be  cleared.  It  may  not  be  for  many  years.  I  can 
safely  say  that  she  will  be  left  in  your  care  for  twenty 
years  at  least.  Some  day  you  will  know  why  it  is  that 
Rosalie  is  not  supposed  to  exist.  God  bless  you." 

She  was  gone  before  they  could  utter  a  word.  They 
watched  her  walk  swiftly  into  the  darkness;  a  few 
minutes  later  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels  suddenly 
broke  upon  the  air.  Anderson  Crow  and  his  wife 
stood  over  the  "base-burner,"  and  there  were  tears  in 
their  thoughtful  eyes. 

"She  said  twenty  years,  Eva.  Let's  see,  this  is  1 883. 
What  would  that  make  it?" 

"About  1903  or  1904,  Anderson." 

"Well,  I  guess  we  c'n  wait  if  other  people  can," 
mused  he.  Then  they  went  slowly  upstairs  and  to 
bed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
Some  Years  Go  By 

TINKLETOWN  as  a  unit  supported  Anderson  in  his 
application  for  guardianship  papers.  They  were  filed 
immediately  after  the  secret  visit  of  the  mysterious, 
woman;  the  Circuit  Court  at  Boggs  City,  after  hear 
ing  the  evidence,  at  once  entered  the  appointment  of 
Mr.  Crow.  When  the  court  asked  in  mild  surprise 
why  he  did  not  adopt  the  child,  Anderson  and  Eva 
looked  at  each  other  sheepishly  and  were  silent  for  a 
full  minute.  Then  Anderson  spoke  up,  a  bit  huskily : 

"Well,  you  see,  judge,  her  name  would  have  to  be 
Crow,  an'  while  it's  a  good  name  an'  an  honoured 
one,  it  don't  jest  seem  to  fit  the  young  'un.  She  'pears 
to  be  more  of  a  canary  than  a  crow,  figuratively 
speakin',  an'  Eva  an'  me  jest  decided  we'd  give  her  a 
different  sort  of  a  last  name  if  we  could  find  one. 
Seems  to  me  that  Rosie  Canary  would  be  a  good  one, 
but  Eva  an'  the  childern  are  ag'in  me.  They've  de 
cided  to  call  her  Rosalie  Gray,  an'  I  guess  that  about 
settles  it.  If  you  don't  mind,  I  reckon  that  name  c'n 
go  in  the  records.  Besides,  you  must  recollect  that 
she's  liable  to  have  a  lot  of  property  some  time,  an' 
it  seems  more  fit  fer  me  to  be  guardian  than  foster- 
father  if  that  time  ever  comes.  It'll  be  easier  to  say 
good-bye  if  she  keers  to  leave  us." 

That  same  day  Anderson  deposited  two  hundred  and 


j6         The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

fifty  dollars  to  his  credit  in  the  First  National  Bank, 
saying  to  his  wife  as  he  walked  away  from  the  teller's 
window,  "I  guess  Rosalie  cain't  starve  till  the  bank 
busts,  an'  maybe  not  then." 

Of  course  Tinkletown  knew  that  a  sum  of  money 
had  been  paid  to  Anderson,  but  no  one  knew  that  it 
had  been  handed  to  him  in  person  by  an  interested 
party.  Had  Anderson  and  his  wife  even  whispered 
that  such  a  visit  had  occurred,  the  town  would  have 
gone  into  a  convulsion  of  wrath;  the  marshal's  ped 
estal  would  have  been  jerked  out  from  under  him 
without  compunction  or  mercy.  Eva  cautioned  him 
to  be  more  than  silent  on  the  subject  for  the  child's 
sake  as  well  as  for  their  own,  and  Anderson  saw 
wisdom  in  her  counselling.  He  even  lagged  in  his 
avowed  intention  to  unravel  the  mystery  or  die  in 
the  attempt.  A  sharp  reminder  in  the  shape  of  an 
item  in  the  Banner  restored  his  energies,  and  he  again 
took  up  the  case  with  a  vigour  that  startled  even  him 
self.  Anything  in  the  shape  of  vigour  startled  his 
wife. 

Harry  Squires,  the  reporter,  who  poked  more  or 
less  fun  at  Anderson  from  time  to  time  because  he 
had  the  "power  of  the  press  behind  him,"  some  weeks 
later  wrote  the  following  item  about  the  "baby 
mystery,"  as  he  called  it,  in  large  type: 

"There  is  no  news  in  regard  to  the  child  found 
upon  the  doorstep  of  our  esteemed  fellow-citizen, 
Anderson  Crow,  last  February.  The  item  concern- 
mg  its  discovery  first  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the 
Banner,  as  will  be  remembered  by  our  many  readers. 


Some  Tears  Go  By  77 

Detective  Crow  promised  developments  some  time 
ago,  but  they  have  not  showed  up.  It  is  rumoured 
that  he  has  a  new  clew,  but  it  cannot  be  substantiated. 
The  general  impression  is  that  he  does  not  know 
whether  it  is  a  boy  or  girl.  We  advise  Mr.  Crow  to 
go  slow.  He  should  not  forget  the  time  when  he 
arrested  Mr.  John  Barnes,  two  years  ago,  for  the 
murder  of  Mr.  Grover,  and  afterward  found  that  the 
young  gent  was  merely  eloping  with  Judge  Brewster's 
daughter,  which  was  no  crime.  We  saw  the  girl. 
Those  of  our  readers  who  were  alive  at  the  time 
doubtless  recall  the  excitement  of  that  man-hunt  two 
years  ago.  Mr.  Barnes,  as  innocent  as  a  child  un 
born,  came  to  our  little  city  engaged  in  the  innocent 
pastime  of  getting  married.  At  the  same  time  it  was 
reported  that  a  murder  had  been  committed  in  this 
county.  Mr.  Crow  had  his  suspicions  aroused  and 
pursued  Mr.  Barnes  down  the  river  and  arrested  him. 
It  was  a  fine  piece  of  detective  work.  But,  unfortu 
nately  for  Mr.  Crow,  the  real  murderer  had  been 
caught  in  the  meantime.  Mr.  Barnes  was  guilty  only 
of  stealing  Judge  Brewster's  daughter  and  getting 
married  to  her.  The  last  heard  of  them  they  were 
happy  in  New  York.  They  even  forgave  Mr.  Crow, 
it  is  reported.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  our  clever  de 
tective  will  soon  jump  down  upon  the  heartless 
parents  of  this  innocent  child,  but  it  is  also  to  be  hoped 
that  he  think  at  least  four  times  before  he  leaps." 

To  say  that  the  foregoing  editorial  disturbed  the 
evenness  of  Mr.  Crow's  temper  would  be  saying 
nothing  at  all.  In  the  privacy  of  his  barn  lot  Ander 
son  did  a  war  dance  that  shamed  Tecumseh.  He 
threatened  to  annihilate  Harry  Squires  "from  head 
to  foot,"  for  publishing  the  base  slander. 


78          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Cro*w 

"Doggone  his  hide,"  roared  poor  Anderson,  "fer 
two  cents  I'd  tell  all  I  know  about  him  bein'  tight  up 
at  Boggs  City  three  years  ago.  He  couldn't  walk 
half  an  inch  that  time  without  staggerin'.  Anyhow, 
I  wouldn't  have  chased  Mr.  Barnes  that  time  if  it 
hadn't  been  fer  Harry  Squires.  He  egged  me  on, 
doggone  his  hide.  If  he  didn't  have  that  big  type 
setter  from  Albany  over  at  the  Banner  office  to  back 
him  up  I'd  go  over  an'  bust  his  snoot  fer  him.  After 
all  the  items  I've  give  him,  too.  That's  all  the  thanks 


Some  Tears  Go  By  79 

you  git  fer  gittin'  up  news  fer  them  blamed  reporters. 
But  I'll  show  him!  I  wonder  what  he'd  think  if  I 
traced  that  baby  right  up  to  his  own — What's  that, 
Eva  ?  Well,  now,  you  don't  know  anything  about  it 
neither,  so  keep  your  mouth  shet.  Harry  Squires  is  a 
purty  sly  cuss.  Mebby  it's  his'n.  You  ain't  supposed 
to  know.  You  jest  let  me  do  my  own  deducin'.  I 
don't  want  no  blamed  woman  tellin'  me  who  to 
shadder.  An'  you,  too,  Edner;  get  out  of  the  way, 
consarn  ye  !  The  next  thing  you'll  be  tellin'  me  what 
to  do — an'  me  your  father,  too!" 

And  that  is  why  Anderson  Crow  resumed  his  search 
for  the  parents  of  Rosalie  Gray.  Not  that  he  hoped 
or  expected  to  find  them,  but  to  offset  the  pernicious 
influence  of  Harry's  "item."  For  many  days  he  fol 
lowed  the  most  highly  impossible  clews,  some  of  them 
intractable,  to  supply  a  rather  unusual  word  of  de 
scription.  In  other  words,  they  reacted  with  a  vigour 
that  often  found  him  unprepared  but  serene.  Conse 
quences  bothered  Anderson  but  little  in  those  days  of 
despised  activity. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  upon  the  incidents  of  the 
ensuing  years,  which  saw  Rosalie  crawl  from  baby 
hood  to  childhood  and  then  stride  proudly  through 
the  teens  with  a  springiness  that  boded  ill  for  Father 
Time.  Regularly  each  succeeding  February  there 
came  to  Anderson  Crow  a  package  of  twenty  dollar 
bills  amounting  to  one  thousand  dollars,  the  mails 
being  inscrutable.  The  Crow  family  prospered  cor 
respondingly,  but  there  was  a  liberal  frugality  behind 
it  all  that  meant  well  for  Rosalie  when  the  time  came 


80          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

for  an  accounting.  Anderson  and  Eva  "laid  by"  a 
goodly  portion  of  the  money  for  the  child,  whom  they 
loved  as  one  of  their  own  flesh  and  blood.  The  dis 
trict  school  lessons  were  followed  later  on  by  a  board 
ing-school  education  down  State,  and  then  came  the 
finishing  touches  at  Miss  Brown's  in  New  York. 

Rosalie  grew  into  a  rare  flower,  as  dainty  as  the  rose, 
as  piquant  as  the  daisy.  The  unmistakable  mark  of 
the  high  bred  glowed  in  her  face,  the  fine  traces  of 
blue  blood  graced  her  every  movement,  her  every 
tone  and  look.  At  the  time  that  she,  as  well  as  every 
one  else  in  Tinkletown,  for  that  matter,  was  twenty 
years  older  than  when  she  first  came  to  Anderson's 
home,  we  find  her  the  queen  of  the  village,  its  one 
rich  human  possession,  its  one  truly  sophisticated  in 
habitant.  Anderson  Crow  and  his  wife  were  so  proud 
of  her  that  they  forgot  their  duty  to  their  own  off 
spring;  but  if  the  Crow  children  resented  this  it  was 
not  exhibited  in  the  expressions  of  love  and  admira 
tion  for  their  foster-sister.  Edna  Crow,  the  eldest  of 
the  girls — Anderson  called  her  "Edner" — was  Rosa 
lie's  most  devoted  slave,  while  Roscoe,  the  twelve- 
year-old  boy,  who  comprised  the  rear  rank  of  Ander 
son's  little  army,  knelt  so  constantly  at  her  shrine  that 
he  fell  far  behind  in  his  studies,  and  stuck  to  the  third 
reader  for  two  years. 

Anderson  had  not  been  idle  in  all  these  years.  He 
was  fast  approaching  his  seventieth  anniversary,  but 
he  was  not  a  day  older  in  spirit  than  when  we  first 
made  his  acquaintance.  True,  his  hair  was  thinner 
and  whiter,  and  his  whiskers  straggled  a  little  more 


Some  Tears  Go  By  8  i 

carelessly  than  in  other  days,  but  he  was  as  young  and 
active  as  a  youth  of  twenty.  Hard  times  did  not 
worry  him,  nor  did  domestic  troubles.  Mrs.  Crow 
often  admitted  that  she  tried  her  best  to  worry  him, 
but  it  was  like  "pouring  water  on  a  duck's  back."  He 
went  blissfully  on  his  way,  earning  encomiums  for 
himself  and  honours  for  Tinkletown.  There  was  no 
grave  crime  committed  in  the  land  that  he  did  not 
have  a  well-defined  scheme  for  apprehending  the  per 
petrators.  His  "deductions"  at  Lamson's  store  never 
failed  to  draw  out  and  hold  large  audiences,  and  no 
one  disputed  his  theories  in  public.  The  fact  that  he 
was  responsible  for  the  arrest  of  various  hog,  horse, 
and  chicken  thieves  from  time  to  time,  and  for  the 
continuous  seizure  of  the  two  town  drunkards,  Tom 
Folly  and  Alf  Reesling,  kept  his  reputation  untar 
nished,  despite  the  numerous  errors  of  commission 
and  omission  that  crept  in  between. 

That  Rosalie's  mysterious  friends — or  enemies,  it 
might  have  been — kept  close  and  accurate  watch  over 
her  was  manifested  from  time  to  time.  Once,  when 
Anderson  was  very  ill  with  typhoid  fever,  the  package 
of  bills  was  accompanied  by  an  unsigned,  type 
written  letter.  The  writer  announced  that  Mr. 
Crow's  state  of  health  was  causing  some  anxiety  on 
Rosalie's  account — the  child  was  then  six  years  old — 
and  it  was  hoped  that  nothing  serious  would  result. 
Another  time  the  strange  writer,  in  a  letter  from 
Paris,  instructed  Mr.  Crow  to  send  Rosalie  to  a  cer 
tain  boarding  school  and  to  see  that  she  had  French, 
German,  and  music  from  competent  instructors. 


8  2          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Again,  just  before  the  girl  went  to  New  York  for  her 
two  years'  stay  in  Miss  Brown's  school,  there  came 
a  package  containing  $2500  for  her  own  personal 
•use.  Rosalie  often  spoke  to  Anderson  of  this  mys 
terious  sender  as  the  "fairy  godmother";  but  the  old 
imarshal  had  a  deeper  and  more  significant  opinion. 

Perhaps  the  most  anxious  period  in  the  life  of 
Anderson  Crow  came  when  Rosalie  was  about  ten 
years  old.  A  new  sheriff  had  been  elected  in  Bramble 
County,  and  he  posed  as  a  reformer.  His  sister  taught 
school  in  Tinkletown,  and  Rosalie  was  her  favourite. 
She  took  an  interest  in  the  child  that  was  almost  the 
undoing  of  Mr.  Crow's  prosperity.  Imagining  that 
she  was  befriending  the  girl,  the  teacher  appealed  to 
her  brother,  the  sheriff,  insisting  that  he  do  what  he 
could  to  solve  the  mystery  of  her  birth.  The  sheriff 
saw  a  chance  to  distinguish  himself.  He  enlisted  the 
help  of  an  aggressive  prosecuting  attorney,  also  new, 
and  set  about  to  investigate  the  case. 

The  two  officers  of  the  law  descended  upon  Tinkle- 
town  one  day  and  began  to  ask  peremptory  questions. 
They  went  about  it  in  such  a  high-handed,  lordly 
manner  that  Anderson  took  alarm  and  his  heart  sank 
like  lead.  He  saw  in  his  mind's  eye  the  utter  col 
lapse  of  all  his  hopes,  the  dashing  away  of  his  cup 
of  leisure  and  the  upsetting  of  the  "fairy  god 
mother's"  plans.  Pulling  his  wits  together,  he  set 
about  to  frustrate  the  attack  of  the  meddlers. 
Whether  it  was  his  shrewdness  in  placing  obstacles  in 
their  way  or  whether  he  coerced  the  denizens  into 
blocking  the  sheriff's  investigation  does  not  matter. 


Some  Tears  Go  By  83 

It  is  only  necessary  to  say  that  the  officious  gentle 
man  from  Boggs  City  finally  gave  up  the  quest  in 
disgust  and  retired  into  the  oblivion  usual  to  county 
officials  who  try  to  be  progressive.  It  was  many 
weeks,  however,  before  Anderson  slept  soundly.  He 
was  once  more  happy  in  the  consciousness  that  Rosalie 
had  been  saved  from  disaster  and  that  he  had  done  his 
duty  by  her. 

"I'd  like  to  know  how  them  doggone  jays  from 
Boggs  City  expected  to  find  out  anything  about  that 
child  when  I  hain't  been  able  to,"  growled  Mr.  Crow 
in  Lamson's  store  one  night.  "If  they'll  jest  keep 
their  blamed  noses  out  of  this  affair  I'll  find  out  who 
her  parents  are  some  day.  It  takes  time  to  trace 
down  things  like  this.  I  guess  I  know  what  I'm  doin', 
don't  I,  boys?" 

"That's  what  you  do,  Anderson,"  said  Mr.  Lamson, 
as  Anderson  reached  over  and  took  a  handful  of 
licorice  drops  from  the  jar  on  the  counter. 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  Fill  age  Queen 

THE  spring  of  1903  brought  Rosalie  back  to  Tinkle- 
town  after  her  second  and  last  year  with  Miss  Brown 
in  New  York  City.  The  sun  seemed  brighter,  the 
birds  sang  more  blithely,  the  flowers  took  on  a  new 
fragrance  and  the  village  spruced  up  as  if  Sunday 
was  the  only  day  in  the  week.  The  young  men  of 
the  town  trembled  when  she  passed  them  by,  and  not 
a  few  of  them  grew  thin  and  haggard  for  want  of 
food  and  sleep,  having  lost  both  appetite  and  repose 
through  a  relapse  in  love.  Her  smile  was  the  same 
as  of  yore,  her  cheery  greetings  the  same,  and  yet  the 
village  swains  stood  in  awe  of  this  fine  young  aristo 
crat  for  days  and  days.  Gradually  it  dawned  upon 
them  that  she  was  human,  after  all,  despite  her  New 
York  training,  and  they  slowly  resumed  the  old-time 
manner  of  courting,  which  was  with  the  eyes  ex 
clusively. 

A  few  of  the  more  venturesome — but  not  the  more 
ardent — asked  her  to  go  walking,  driving,  or  to  the 
church  "sociables,"  and  there  was  a  rivalry  in  town 
which  threatened  to  upset  commerce.  There  was  no 
theatre  in  Tinkletown,  but  they  delighted  in  her  de 
scriptions  of  the  gorgeous  play-houses  in  New  York. 
The  town  hall  seemed  smaller  than  ever  to  them. 
The  younger  merchants  and  their  clerks  neglected 


The  Village  Queen  85 

business  with  charming  impartiality,  and  trade  was 
going  to  "rack  and  ruin"  until  Rosalie  declined  to 
marry  George  Rawlins,  the  minister's  son.  He  was 
looked  upon  as  the  favoured  one;  but  she  refused  him 
in  such  a  decisive  manner  that  all  others  lost  hope 
and  courage.  It  is  on  record  that  the  day  after 
George's  conge  Tinkletown  indulged  in  a  complete 
business  somersault.  Never  before  had  there  been 
such  strict  attention  to  customers;  merchants  and 
clerks  alike  settled  down  to  the  inevitable  and  tried  to 
banish  Rosalie's  face  from  the  cost  tags  and  trading 
stamps  of  their  dull,  mercantile  cloister.  Even  Tony 
Brink,  the  blacksmith's  'prentice,  fell  into  the  habits 
of  industry,  but  with  an  absent-mindedness  that  got 
him  kicked  through  a  partition  in  the  smithy  when 
he  attempted  to  shoe  the  fetlock  of  Mr.  Martin's  colt 
instead  of  its  hoof. 

The  Crow  family  took  on  a  new  dignity.  Anderson 
gave  fifty  dollars  to  the  Foreign  Missionary  Society 
of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  claiming  that  a  foreign 
education  had  done  so  much  for  his  ward;  and  Mrs. 
Crow  succeeded  in  holding  two  big  afternoon  teas 
before  Rosalie  could  apply  the  check  rein. 

One  night  Anderson  sat  up  until  nearly  ten  o'clock — 
an  unheard-of  proceeding  for  him.  Rosalie,  with 
the  elder  Crow  girls,  Edna  and  Susie,  had  gone  to 
protracted  meeting  with  a  party  of  young  men  and 
women.  The  younger  boys  and  girls  were  in  bed, 
and  Mrs.  Crow  was  yawning  prodigiously.  She  never 
retired  until  Anderson  was  ready  to  do  likewise.  Sud 
denly  it  dawned  upon  her  that  he  was  unusually  quiet 


86          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

and  preoccupied.     They  were  sitting  on  the  moonlit 
porch. 

"What's  the  matter,  Anderson?    Ain't  you  well?" 
she  asked  at  last. 

"No;  I'm  just  thinkin',"  he  responded,  rather  dis 
mally.  "Doggone,  I  cain't  get  it  out  of  my  head, 
Eva." 

"Can't  get  what  out?" 

"About  Rosalie." 

"Well,  what  about  her?" 

"That's  jest  like  a  woman — always  fergittin'  the 
most  important  things  in  the  world.  Don't  you  know 
that  the  twenty  years  is  up?" 

"Of  course  I  know  it,  but  'tain't  worryin'  me  any. 
She's  still  here,  ain't  she  ?  Nobody  has  come  to  take 
her  away.  The  thousand  dollars  came  all  right  last 
February,  didn't  it?  Well,  what's  the  use  worryin'  ?" 

"Mebbe  you're  right,  but  I'm  skeered  to  death  fer 
fear  some  one  will  turn  up  an'  claim  her,  er  that  a  big 
estate  will  be  settled,  er  somethin'  awful  like  that. 
I  don't  mind  the  money,  Eva;  I  jest  hate  to  think  of 
losin'  her,  now  that  she's  such  a  credit  to  us.  Besides, 
I'm  up  a  stump  about  next  year." 

"Well,  what  happens  then?" 

"Derned  if  I  know.    That's  what's  worryin'  me." 

"I  don't  see  why  you " 

"Certainly  you  don't.  You  never  do.  I've  got  to 
do  all  the  thinkin'  fer  this  fambly.  Next  year  she's 
twenty-one  years  old  an'  her  own  boss,  ain't  she?  I 
ain't  her  guardeen  after  that,  am  I?  What  happens 
then,  I'd  like  to  know." 


The  Village  £>ueen  87 

"You  jest  have  to  settle  with  the  court,  pay  over 
to  her  what  belongs  to  her  and  keep  the  thousand 
every  spring  jest  the  same.  Her  people,  whoever 
they  be,  are  payin'  you  fer  keepin'  her  an'  not  her 
fer  stayin'  here.  'Tain't  likely  she'll  want  to  leave 
a  good  home  like  this  'un,  is  it?  Don't  worry  till 
the  time  comes,  Anderson." 

"That's  jest  the  point.  She's  lived  in  New  York 
an'  she's  got  used  to  it.  She's  got  fine  idees;  even 
her  clothes  seem  to  fit  different.  Now,  do  you  s'pose 
that  fine-lookin'  girl  with  all  her  New  York  trim- 
min's  's  goin'  to  hang  'round  a  fool  little  town  like 
this?  Not  much!  She's  goin'  to  dig  out  o'  here 
as  soon  's  she  gits  a  chance;  an'  she's  goin'  to  live 
right  where  her  heart  tells  her  she  belongs — in  the 
metropolees  of  New  York.  She  don't  belong  in  no 
jim-crow  town  like  this.  Doggone,  Eva,  I  hate  to. 
see  'er  go!" 

There  was  such  a  wail  of  bitterness  in  the  old  con 
stable's  remark  that  Mrs.  Crow  felt  the  tears  start 
to  her  own  eyes.  It  was  the  girl  they  both  wanted^ 
after  all — not  the  money.  Rosalie,  coming  home 
with  her  party  some  time  afterward,  found  the  old 
couple  still  seated  on  the  porch.  The  young  people 
could  not  conceal  their  surprise. 

"Counting  the  stars,  pop?"  asked  Edna  Crow. 

"He's  waiting  for  the  eclipse,"  bawled  noisy  Ed 
Higgins,  the  grocer's  clerk.  "It's  due  next  winter. 
H'are  you,  Anderson?" 

"How's  that?"  was  Anderson's  rebuke. 

"I  mean  Mr.  Crow,"  corrected  Ed,  with  a  nervous 


8  8          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

glance  at  Rosalie, 
who  had  been  his 
companion  for  the 
evening. 

"Oh,  I'm  jest  so- 
so,"  remarked  An 
derson,  mollified. 
"How  was  the 
party?" 

"It  wasn't  a 
party,  Daddy 
Crow,"  laughed 
Rosalie,  seating 
herself  in  front  of 
him  on  the  porch 
rail.  "It  was  an 
experience  meeting. 
Alf  Reesling  has  reformed  again.  He  told  us  all 
about  his  last  attack  of  delirium  tremens." 

"You  don't  say  so !     Well,  sir,  I  never  thought  Alf 
could  find  the  time  to  reform  ag'in.     He's  too  busy 
gittin'  tight,"  mused  Anderson.     "But  I  guess  re- 
formin'  c'n  git  to  be  as  much  a  habit  as  anythin'  else." 
"I  think  he  was  a  little  woozy  to-night,"  ventured 
'Rast  Little. 
"A  little  what?" 

**Drunk,"  explained  'Rast,  without  wasting  words. 
'Rast  had  acquired  the  synonym  at  the  business  men's 
carnival  in  Boggs  City  the  preceding  fall.  Some 
times  he  substituted  the  words  "pie-eyed,"  "skeed," 
"lit  up,"  etc.,  just  to  show  his  worldliness. 


The  Village  ^ueen  89 

After  the  young  men  had  departed  and  the  Crow 
girls  had  gone  upstairs  with  their  mother  Rosalie 
slipped  out  on  the  porch  and  sat  herself  down  upon 
the  knee  of  her  disconsolate  guardian. 

"You  are  worried  about  something,  Daddy  Crow," 
she  said  gently.  "Now,  speak  up,  sir.  What  is  it?" 

"It's  time  you  were  in  bed,"  scolded  Anderson,  pull 
ing  his  whiskers  nervously. 

"Oh,  I'm  young,  daddy.  I  don't  need  sleep.  But 
you  never  have  been  up  as  late  as  this  since  I've  known 
you." 

"I  was  up  later'n  this  the  time  you  had  the 
whoopin'-cough,  all  right." 

"What's  troubling  you,  daddy?" 

"Oh,  nothin' — nothin'  at  all.  Doggone,  cain't  a 
man  set  out  on  his  own  porch  'thout " 

"Forgive  me,  daddy.  Shall  I  go  away  and  leave  you  ?" 

"Gosh  a'mighty,  no !"  he  gasped.  "That's  what's 
worryin'  me — oh,  you  didn't  mean  forever.  You  jest 
meant  to-night?  Geminy  crickets,  you  did  give 
me  a  skeer!"  He  sank  back  with  a  great  sigh  of 
relief. 

"Why,  I  never  expect  to  leave  you  forever,"  she 
cried,  caressing  his  scanty  hair.  "You  couldn't  drive 
me  away.  This  is  home,  and  you've  been  too  good 
to  me  all  these  years.  I  may  want  to  travel  after  a 
while,  but  I'll  always  come  back  to  you,  Daddy 
Crow." 

"I'm — I'm  mighty  glad  to  hear  ye  say  that,  Rosie. 
Ye  see — ye  see,  me  an'  your  ma  kinder  learned  to 
love  you,  an' — an' " 


90          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Why,  Daddy  Crow,  you  silly  old  goose!  You're 
almost  crying!" 

"What's  that?  Now,  don't  talk  like  that  to  me, 
you  little  whipper-snapper,  er  you  go  to  bed  in  a 
hurry.  I  never  cried  in  my  life,"  growled  Anderson 
in  a  great  bluster. 

"Well,  then,  let's  talk  about  something  else — me, 
for  instance.  Do  you  know,  Daddy  Crow,  that  I'm 
too  strong  to  live  an  idle  life.  There  is  no  reason 
why  I  shouldn't  have  an  occupation.  I  want  to  work 
— accomplish  something." 

Anderson  was  silent  a  long  time  collecting  his  nerves. 

"You  wouldn't  keer  to  be  a  female  detective,  would 
you?"  he  asked  drily. 


CHAPTER  X 

Rosalie  Has  Plans,  of  Her  Own 

"Do  be  serious,  daddy.  I  want  to  do  something 
worth  while.  I  could  teach  school  or " 

"Not  much!  You  ain't  cut  out  fer  that  job.  Don't 
you  know  that  ever'body  hates  school-teachers  when 
they're  growed  up?  Jerusalem,  how  I  still  hate  old 
Rachel  Kidwell !  An'  yet  she's  bin  dead  nigh  onto 
thirty  years.  She  was  my  first  teacher.  You  wasn't 
born  to  be  hated  by  all  the  boys  in  the  district.  I 
don't  see  what  put  the  idee  of  work  inter  your  head 
You  got  'bout  eight  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank 
an' " 

"But  I  insist  that  the  money  is  yours,  daddy.  My 
fairy  godmother  paid  it  to  you  for  keeping,  clothing, 
and  educating  me.  It  is  not  mine." 

"You  talk  like  I  was  a  boardin'  school  instead  o* 
bein'  your  guardeen.  No,  siree;  it's  your  money,  an* 
that  ends  it.  You  git  it  when  you're  twenty-one." 

"We'll  see,  daddy,"  she  replied,  a  stubborn  light  in 
her  dark  eyes.  "But  I  want  to  learn  to  do  something 
worth  while.  If  I  had  a  million  it  would  be  just  the 
same." 

"You'll  have  something  to  do  when  you  git  mar 
ried,"  observed  he  sharply. 

"Nonsense !" 

"I  s'pose  you're  goin'  to  say  you  never  expect  to 


92          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

git  married.  They  all  say  it — an'  then  take  the  first 
feller  'at  comes  along." 

"I  didn't  take  the  first,  or  the  second,  or  the  third, 
or  the " 

"Hold  on!  Gosh  a'mighty,  have  you  had  that 
many?  Well,  why  don't  you  go  into  the  matrimonial 
agent's  business?  That's  an  occupation." 

"Oh,  none  of  them  was  serious,  daddy,"  she  said 
naively. 

"You  could  have  all  of  the  men  in  the  county !"  he 
declared  proudly.  "Only,"  he  added  quickly,  "it 
wouldn't  seem  jest  right  an'  proper." 

"There  was  a  girl  at  Miss  Brown's  a  year  ago  who 
had  loads  of  money,  and  yet  she  declared  she  was 
going  to  have  an  occupation.  Nobody  knew  much 
about  her  or  why  she  left  school  suddenly  in  the 
middle  of  a  term.  I  liked  her,  for  she  was  very  nice 
to  me  when  I  first  went  there,  a  stranger.  Mr.  Red- 
don — you've  heard  me  speak  of  him — was  devoted 
to  her,  and  I'm  sure  she  liked  him.  It  was  only 
yesterday  I  heard  from  her.  She  is  going  to  teach 
school  in  this  township  next  winter." 

"An'  she's  got  money?" 

"I  am  sure  she  had  it  in  those  days.  It's  the  strang 
est  thing  in  the  world  that  she  should  be  coming 
here  to  teach  school  in  No.  5.  Congressman  Ritchey 
secured  the  appointment  for  her,  she  says.  The  town 
ship  trustee — whatever  his  name  is — for  a  long  time 
insisted  that  he  must  appoint  a  teacher  from  Tinkle- 
town  and  not  an  outsider.  I  am  glad  she  is  coming 
here  because — well,  daddy,  because  she  is  like  the 


Rosalie  Has  Plans  of  Her  Own          93 

girls  I  knew  in  the  city.  She  has  asked  me  to  look 
up  a  boarding  place  for  next  winter.  Do  you  know 
of  any  one,  daddy,  who  could  let  her  have  a  nice 
room?" 

"I'll  bet  my  ears  you'd  like  to  have  your  ma  take 
her  in  right  here.  But  I  don't  see  how  it  c'n  be  done, 
Rosie-posie.  There's  so  derned  many  of  us  now, 
an' " 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,  daddy.  She  couldn't  come 
here.  But  don't  you  think  Mrs.  Jim  Holabird  would 
take  her  in  for  the  winter?" 

"P'raps.  She's  a  widder.  She  might  let  her  have 
Jim's  room  now  that  there's  a  vacancy.  You  might 
go  over  an'  ast  her  about  it  to-morrer.  It's  a  good 
thing  she's  a  friend  of  yourn,  Rosalie,  because  if  she 
wasn't  I'd  have  to  fight  her  app'intment." 

"Why,  daddy!"  reproachfully. 

"Well,  she's  a  foreigner,  an'  I  don't  think  it's  right 
to  give  her  a  job  when  we've  got  so  many  home 
products  that  want  the  place  an'  who  look  unpopular 
enough  to  fill  the  bill.  I'm  fer  home  industry  every 
time,  an'  'specially  as  this  girl  don't  appear  to  need 
the  place.  I  don't  see  what  business  Congressman 
Ritchey  has  foolin'  with  our  school  system  anyhow. 
He'd  better  be  reducin'  the  tariff  er  increasin'  the 
pensions  down  to  Washington." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  Daddy  Crow,"  said  Rosalie 
with  a  diplomacy  that  always  won  for  her.  She  knew 
precisely  how  to  handle  her  guardian,  and  that  was 
why  she  won  where  his  own  daughters  failed.  "And 
now,  good-night,  daddy.  Go  to  bed  and  don't  worry 


94          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

about  me.  You'll  have  me  on  your  hands  much 
longer  than  you  think  or  want.  What  time  is  it?" 

Anderson  patted  her  head  reflectively  as  he  solemnly 
drew  his  huge  silver  time-piece  from  an  unlocated 
pocket.  He  held  it  out  into  the  bright  moonlight. 

"Geminy  crickets!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  forty-nine 
minutes  to  twelve !"  Anderson  Crow's  policy  was  to 
always  look  at  things  through  the  small  end  of  the 
telescope. 

The  slow,  hot  summer  wore  away,  and  to  Rosalie 
it  was  the  longest  that  she  ever  had  experienced.  She 
was  tired  of  the  ceaseless  twaddle  of  Tinkletown,  its 
flow  of  "missions,"  "sociables,"  "buggy-horses," 
"George  Rawlin's  new  dress-suit,"  "harvesting,"  and 


"politics" — for  even  the  children  talked  politics. 
Nor  did  the  assiduous  attentions  of  the  village  young 
men  possess  the  power  to  shorten  the  days  for  her — 


Rosalie  Has  Plans  of  Her  Own          95 

and  they  certainly  lengthened  the  nights.  She  liked 
them  because  they  were  her  friends  from  the  begin 
ning — and  Rosalie  was  not  a  snob.  Not  for  the 
world  would  she  have  hurt  the  feelings  of  one  poor, 
humble,  adoring  soul  in  Tinkletown;  and  while  her 
smile  was  none  the  less  sweet,  her  laugh  none  the  less 
joyous,  in  her  heart  there  was  the  hidden  longing  that 
smiled  only  in  dreams.  She  longed  for  the  day  that 
was  to  bring  Elsie  Banks  to  live  with  Mrs.  Holabird, 
for  with  her  would  come  a  breath  of  the  world  she 
had  known  for  two  years,  and  which  she  had  learned 
to  love  so  well. 

In  three  months  seven  men  had  asked  her  to  marry 
them.  Of  the  seven,  one  only  had  the  means  or  the 
prospect  of  means  to  support  her.  He  was  a  grass- 
widower  with  five  grown  children.  Anderson  took 
occasion  to  warn  her  against  widowers. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "they're  jest  like  widders.  You 
know  Dave  Smith  that  runs  the  tavern  down  street, 
don't  you?  Well,  doggone  ef  he  didn't  turn  in  an' 
marry  a  widder  with  seven  childern  an'  a  husband, 
an'  he's  led  a  dog's  life  ever  sence." 

"Seven  children  and  a  husband?     Daddy  Crow!" 

"Yep.  Her  derned  husband  wouldn't  stay  divorced 
when  he  found  out  Dave  could  support  a  fambly  as 
big  as  that.  He  figgered  it  would  be  jest  as  easy  to 
take  keer  of  eight  as  seven,  so  he  perlitely  attached 
hisself  to  Dave's  kitchen  an'  started  in  to  eat  hisself 
to  death.  Dave  was  goin'  to  have  his  wife  apply 
fer  another  divorce  an'  leave  the  name  blank,  so's  he 
could  put  in  either  husband  ef  it  came  to  a  pinch,  but 


96          The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

I  coaxed  him  out  of  it.  He  finally  got  rid  of  the  feller 
by  askin'  him  one  day  to  sweep  out  the  office.  He 
could  eat  all  right,  but  it  wasn't  natural  fer  him  to 
work,  so  he  skipped  out.  Next  I  heerd  of  him  he 
had  married  a  widder  who  was  gittin'  a  pension 
because  her  first  husband  fit  fer  his  country.  The 
Government  shet  off  the  pension  jest  as  soon  as  she 
got  married  ag'in,  and  then  that  blamed  cuss  took  in 
washin'  fer  her.  He  stayed  away  from  home  on 
wash-days,  but  as  every  day  was  wash-day  with  her, 
he  didn't  see  her  by  daylight  fer  three  years.  She 
died,  an'  now  he's  back  at  Dave's  ag'in.  He  calls 
Dave  his  husband-in-law." 

It  required  all  of  Anderson's  social  and  official  diplo 
macy  to  forestall  an  indignation  meeting  when  it  was 
announced  that  a  stranger,  Miss  Banks,  had  been 
selected  to  teach  school  No.  5.  There  was  some  talk 
of  mobbing  the  township  trustee  and  Board  of  County 
Commissioners,  but  Anderson  secured  the  names  of 
the  more  virulent  talkers  and  threatened  to  "jail" 
them  for  conspiracy. 

"Why,  Anderson,"  almost  wailed  George  Ray, 
"that  girl's  from  the  city.  What  does  she  know  about 
grammar  an'  history  an'  all  that?  They  don't  teach 
anything  but  French  an'  Italian  in  the  cities  an'  you 
know  it." 

"Pshaw!"  sniffed  Anderson.  "I  hate  grammar  an' 
always  did.  I  c'n  talk  better  Italian  than  grammar 
right  now,  an'  I  hope  Miss  Banks  will  teach  every 
child  in  the  district  how  to  talk  French.  You'd  orter 
hear  Rosalie  talk  it.  Besides,  Rosie  says  she's  a  nice 


SEPTEMBER  BROUGHT   ELSIE  BANKS" 


Rosalie  Has  Plans  of  Her  Own          97 

girl  an' — an'  needs  the  job."    Anderson  lied  bravely, 
but  he  swallowed  twice  in  doing  it. 

September  brought  Elsie  Banks  to  make  life  worth 
living  for  Rosalie.  The  two  girls  were  constantly 
together,  talking  over  the  old  days  and  what  the  new 
ones  were  to  bring  forth,  especially  for  Miss  Gray, 
who  had  resumed  wood  carving  as  a  temporary  occu 
pation.  Miss  Banks  was  more  than  ever  reluctant  to 
discuss  her  own  affairs,  and  Rosalie  after  a  few  trials 
was  tactful  enough  to  respect  her  mute  appeal.  It  is 
doubtful  if  either  of  the  girls  mentioned  the  name  of 
big,  handsome  Tom  Reddon — Tom,  who  had  rowed 
in  his  college  crew;  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that  both 
of  them  thought  of  him  more  than  once  those  long, 
soft,  autumn  nights — nights  when  Tinkletown's 
beaux  were  fairly  tumbling  over  themselves  in  the 
effort  to  make  New  York  life  seem  like  a  flimsy 
shadow  in  comparison. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Elsie  Banks 

ANDERSON  CROW  stood  afar  off — among  the  bleak, 
leafless  trees  of  Badger's  Grove — and  gazed 
thoughtfully,  even  earnestly,  upon  the  little  red 
schoolhouse  with  its  high  brick  chimney  and  snow- 
clad  roof.  A  biting  January  wind  cut  through  his 
whiskers  and  warmed  his  nose  to  a  half-broiled  shade 
of  red.  On  the  lapel  of  his  overcoat  glistened  his 
social  and  official  badges,  augmented  by  a  new  and 
particularly  shiny  emblem  of  respect  bestowed  by  the 
citizens  of  Tinkletown. 

At  first  it  had  been  the  sense  of  the  town  to  erect 
a  monument  in  recognition  of  his  part  in  the  capture 
of  the  Bramble  County  horse-thief  gang,  but  a  thrifty 
and  considerate  committee  of  five  substituted  a  fancy 
gold  badge  with  suitable  inscriptions  on  both  sides, 
extolling  him  to  the  skies  "long  before  he  went  there 
hisself"  (to  quote  Uncle  Gideon  Luce,  whose  bump 
of  perception  was  a  stubborn  prophet  when  it  came 
to  picking  out  the  site  of  Mr.  Crow's  heaven).  For 
a  full  half  hour  the  marshal  of  Tinkletown  had  been 
standing  among  the  trees  surveying  the  schoolhouse 
at  the  foot'  of  the  slope.  If  his  frosted  cheeks  and 
watery  eyes  ached  for  the  warmth  that  urged  the 
curls  of  smoke  to  soar  away  from  the  chimney-top, 
his  attitude  did  not  betray  the  fact.  He  was  watching 


Elsie  Banks  99 

and  thinking,  and  when  Anderson  thought  of  one 
thing  he  never  thought  of  another  at  the  same  time. 

"It'll  soon  be  recess  time,"  he  reflected.  "Then  I'll 
step  down  there  an'  let  on  to  be  makin'  a  social  call 
on  the  schoolma'am.  By  gum,  I  believe  she's  the 
one !  It'll  take  some  tarnation  good  work  to  find  out 
the  truth  about  her,  but  I  guess  I  c'n  do  it  all  right. 
The  only  thing  I  got  to  guard  ag'inst  is  lettin'  any 
body  else  know  of  the  mystery  surroundin'  her. 
Gosh !  it'll  surprise  some  of  the  folks  'round  here, 
'specially  Rosalie.  An'  mebby  the  township  trustee 
won't  be  sorry  he  give  the  school  this  year  to  a  strange 
girl  instid  o'  to  Jane  Rankin  er  Effie  Dickens !  Con 
gressman  Ritchey  hadn't  no  business  puttin'  his  nose 
into  our  affairs  anyhow,  no  matter  if  this  here  teacher 
is  a  friend  of  his  fambly.  He's  got  some  kind  a  holt 
on  these  here  trustees — 'y  gosh,  I'd  like  to  know  what 
'tis.  He  c'n  jest  wrap  'em  round  his  finger  an'  make 
'em  app'int  anybody  he  likes.  Must  be  politics. 
There,  it's  recess!  I'll  jest  light  out  an'  pay  the 
schoolhouse  a  little  visit." 

Inside  a  capacious  and  official  pocket  of  Mr. 
Crow's  coat  reposed  a  letter  from  a  law  firm  in 
Chicago.  It  asked  if  within  the  last  two  years  a 
young  woman  had  applied  for  a  position  as  teacher  in 
the  township  schools  at  Tinkletown.  A  description 
accompanied  the  inquiry,  but  it  was  admitted  she 
might  have  applied  under  a  name  not  her  own,  which 
was  Marion  Lovering.  In  explanation,  the  letter  said 
she  had  left  her  home  in  Chicago  without  the  consent 
of  her  aunt,  imbued  with  the  idea  that  she  would 


i  oo       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

sooner  support  herself  than  depend  upon  the  charity 
of  that  worthy  though  wealthy  relative.  The  aunt 
had  recently  died,  and  counsel  for  the  estate  was  try 
ing  to  establish  proof  concerning  the  actions  and 
whereabouts  of  Miss  Lovering  since  her  departure 
from  Chicago. 

The  young  woman  often  had  said  she  would  become 
a  teacher,  a  tutor,  a  governess,  or  a  companion,  and 
it  was  known  that  she  had  made  her  way  to  that  sec 
tion  of  the  world  presided  over  by  Anderson  Crow — 
although  the  distinguished  lawyers  did  not  put  it  in 
those  words.  A  reward  of  five  hundred  dollars  for 
positive  information  concerning  the  "life  of  the  girl" 
while  in  "that  or  any  other  community"  was  prom 
ised. 

Miss  Banks's  appointment  came  through  the  agency 
of  the  district's  congressman,  in  whose  home  she  had 
acted  as  governess  for  a  period.  Moreover,  she 
answered  the  description  in  that  she  was  young, 
pretty,  and  refined.  Anderson  Crow  felt  that  he  was 
on  the  right  track;  he  was  now  engaged  in  as  pretty 
a  piece  of  detective  business  as  had  ever  fallen  to  his 
lot,  and  he  was  not  going  to  spoil  it  by  haste  and  over- 
confidence. 

Just  why  Anderson  Crow  should  "shadow"  the 
schoolhouse  instead  of  the  teacher's  temporary  place 
of  abode  no  one  could  possibly  have  known  but  him 
self — and  it  is  doubtful  if  he  knew.  He  resolved  not 
to  answer  the  Chicago  letter  until  he  was  quite  ready 
to  produce  the  girl  and  the  proof  desired. 

"I'd  be  a  gol-swiggled  fool  to  put  'em  onter  my' 


Elsie  Banks  101 

s'picions  an'  then  have  'em  cheat  me  out  of  the  re 
ward,"  he  reflected  keenly.  "You  cain't  trust  them 
Chicago  lawyers  an  inch  an'  a  half.  Doggone  it,  I'll 
never  fergit  that  feller  who  got  my  pockit-book  out 
to  Central  Park  that  time.  He  tole  me  positively  he 
was  a  lawyer  from  Chicago,  an'  had  an  office  in  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  Building.  An'  the  idee  of  him  tellin' 
me  he  wanted  to  see  if  my  pockit-book  had  better 
leather  in  it  than  hisn !" 

The  fact  that  the  school  children,  big  and  little, 
loved  Miss  Banks  possessed  no  point  of  influence  over 
their  elders  of  the  feminine  persuasion.  They  turned 
up  their  Tinkletown  noses  and  sniffed  at  her  because 
she  was  a  "vain  creature,"  who  thought  more  of 
"attractin'  the  men  than  she  did  of  anything  else  on 
earth."  And  all  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  was 
the  intimate  friend  of  the  town  goddess,  Rosalie  Gray. 

Everybody  in  school  No.  5  over  the  age  of  seven 
was  deeply,  jealously  in  love  with  Miss  Banks.  Many 
a  frozen  snowball  did  its  deadly  work  from  ambush 
because  of  this  impotent  jealousy. 

But  the  merriest  rivalry  was  that  which  developed 
between  Ed  Higgins,  the  Beau  Brummel  of  Tinkle- 
town,  and  'Rast  Little,  whose  father  owned  the  big 
gest  farm  in  Bramble  County.  If  she  was  amused  by 
the  frantic  efforts  of  each  suitor  to  outwit  the  other 
she  was  too  tactful  to  display  her  emotion.  Perhaps 
she  was  more  highly  entertained  by  the  manner  in 
which  Tinkletown  femininity  paired  its  venom  with 
masculine  admiration. 

"Mornin',  Miss  Banks,"  was  Anderson's  greeting 


102 


The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

as  he  stamped  nois 
ily  into  the  room. 
He  forgot  that  he 
had  said  good- 
morning  to  her 
when  she  stopped 
in  to  see  Rosalie  on 
her  way  to  the 
schoolhouse.  The 
children  ceased 
their  outdoor  game 
and  peered  eagerly 

'\\  through    the    win- 
B  d  o  w  s,     conscious 

1  •     •  C 

ft  that  the  visit  or 
this  dignitary  was 
of  supreme  impor 
tance.  Miss  Banks 
looked  up  from 
the  papers  she  was  correcting,  the  pucker  vanishing 
from  her  pretty  brow  as  if  by  magic. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Crow.  What  are  you  doing 
away  out  here  in  the  country?  Jimmy" — to  a  small 
boy — "please  close  the  door."  Anderson  had  left  it 
open,  and  it  was  a  raw  January  wind  which  followed 
him  into  the  room. 

'  'Scuse  me,"  he  murmured.  "Seems  I  ain't  got  sense 
enough  to  shet  a  door  even.  My  wife  says — but  you 
don't  keer  to  hear  about  that,  do  you?  Oh,  I  jest 
dropped  in,"  finally  answering  her  question.  He  took 
a  bench  near  the  big  stove  and  spread  his  hands  before 


Elsie  Banks 

the  sheet-iron 
warmth.  "Lookin' 
up  a  little  affair, 
that's  all.  Power 
ful  chilly,  ain't  it?" 

"Very."  She  stood 
on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  stove,  puz 
zled  by  this  unex 
pected  visit,  looking 
at  him  with  undis 
guised  curiosity. 

"Ever  been  to 
Chicago?"  asked 
Anderson  sud 
denly,  hoping  to 
catch  her  unawares. 

"Oh,  yes.     I  have 
lived    there,"     she 
answered  readily.     He  shifted  his  legs  twice  and  took 
a  hasty  pull  at  his  whiskers. 

"That's  what  I  thought.     Why  don't  you  go  back 
there?" 

"Because  I'm  teaching  school  here,  Mr.  Crow." 

"Well,  I  reckon  that's  a  good  excuse.     I  thought 
mebby  you  had  a  different  one." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno.     I  jest  asked." 

"You  are  a  detective,   are  you  not?"   asked  Miss 
Banks,  smiling  brightly  and  with  understanding. 

"Oh,  off  an'  on  I  do  a  little  detectin'.    See  my  badge  ?" 


1 04       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Am  I  suspected  of  a  heinous  crime?"  she  asked  so 
abruptly  that  he  gasped.  "Won't  you  take  off  your 
cap,  Mr.  Crow?"  He  removed  it  sheepishly. 

"Lord,  no!"  he  exclaimed  in  confusion.  "I  mean 
the  crime — not  the  cap.  Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  goin'. 
School's  goin'  to  take  up,  I  reckon.  See  you  later, 
Miss  Banks."  He  restored  his  cap  to  its  accustomed 
place  and  was  starting  toward  the  door,  a  trifle  dazed 
and  bewildered. 

"What  is  it  that  you  wish  to  find  out,  Mr.  Crow?" 
she  suddenly  called  to  him.  He  halted  and  faced 
about  so  quickly  that  his  reply  came  like  a  shot  out 
of  a  gun. 

"I'm  on  the  lookout  fer  a  girl — an'  she'll  be  's  rich  's 
Crowses  if  I  c'n  only  find  'er.  I  dassent  tell  'er  name 
jest  now,"  he  went  on,  slowly  retracing  his  steps, 
'  'cause  I  don't  want  people — er  her  either,  fer  that 
matter — to  git  onter  my  scheme.  But  you  jest  wait." 
He  was  standing  very  close  to  her  now  and  looking 
her  full  in  the  face.  "You're  sure  you  don't  know 
anythin'  'bout  her?" 

"Why,  how  should  I  know  ?  You've  told  me  nothing." 

"You've  got  purty  good  clothes  fer  a  common 
school-teacher,"  he  flung  at  her  in  an  aggressive,  im 
pertinent  tone,  but  the  warm  colour  that  swiftly  rose 
to  her  cheeks  forced  him  to  recall  his  words,  for  he 
quickly  tempered  them  with,  "Er,  at  least,  that's  what 
all  the  women  folks  say." 

"Oh,  so  some  one  has  been  talking  about  my  affairs? 
Some  of  your  excellent  women  want  to  know  more 
about  me  than " 


Elsie  Banks 


105 


"Don't  git  excited,  Miss  Banks,"  he  interrupted; 
"the  women  ain't  got  anythin'  to  do  with  it — I  mean, 
it's  nothin'  to  them.  I " 

"Mr.  Crow,"  she  broke  in,  "if  there  is  anything 
you  or  anybody  in  Tinkletown  wants  to  know  about 
me  you  will  have  to  deduce  it  for  yourself.  I  be 
lieve  that  is  what  you  call  it — deduce?  And  now 
good-bye,  Mr.  Crow.  Recess  is  over,"  she  said  point 
edly;  and  Mr.  Crow  shuffled  out  as  the  children  gal 
loped  in. 


That  evening  Ed  Higgins  and  'Rast  Little  came  to 
call,  but  she  excused  herself  because  of  her  corre 
spondence.  In  her  little  upstairs  room  she  wrote  letter 
after  letter,  one  in  particular  being  voluminous.  Mrs. 
Holabird,  as  she  passed  her  door,  distinctly  heard  her 
laugh  aloud.  It  was  a  point  to  be  recalled  afterward 
with  no  little  consideration.  Later  she  went  down 
stairs,  cloaked  warmly,  for  a  walk  to  the  post-office. 


1 06       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Ed  Higgins  was  still  in  the  parlour  talking  to  the 
family.  He  hastily  put  in  his  petition  to  accompany 
her,  and  it  was  granted  absently.  Then  he  surrep 
titiously  and  triumphantly  glanced  through  the  win 
dow,  the  scene  outside  pleasing  him  audibly.  'Rast 
was  standing  at  the  front  gate  talking  to  Anderson 
Crow.  Miss  Banks  noticed  as  they  passed  the  con 
fused  twain  at  the  gate  that  Anderson  carried  his  dark 
lantern. 

"Any  trace  of  the  heiress,  Mr.  Crow?"  she  asked 
merrily. 

"Doggone  it,"  muttered  Anderson,  "she'll  give  the 
whole  snap  away!" 

"What's  that?"  asked  'Rast. 

"Nothin'  much,"  said  Anderson,  repairing  the  dam 
age.  "Ed's  got  your  time  beat  to-night,  'Rast,  that's 
all!" 

"I  could  'a'  took  her  out  ridin'  to-night  if  I'd  wanted 
to,"  lied  'Rast  promptly.  "I'm  goin'  to  take  her  to 
the  spellin'-bee  to-morrow  night  out  to  the  school- 
house." 

"Did  she  say  she'd  go  with  you?" 

"Not  yet.    I  was  jest  goin'  to  ast  her  to-night." 

"Mebby  Ed's  askin'  her  now." 

"Gosh  dern  it,  that's  so!  Maybe  he  is,"  almost 
wailed  'Rast;  and  Anderson  felt  sorry  for  him  as  he 
ambled  away  from  the  gate  and  its  love-sick  guardian. 


CHAPTER  XII 
The  Spelling-Bee 

YOUNG  Mr.  Higgins  found  his  companion  bubbling 
over  with  vivacity.  Her  pretty  chin  was  in  the  air 
and  every  word  bore  the  promise  of  a  laugh.  He 
afterward  recalled  one  little  incident  of  their  walk 
through  the  frosty  night,  and  repeated  it  to  Anderson 
Crow  with  more  awe  than  seemed  necessary.  They 
were  passing  the  town  pump  on  their  way  to  the  post- 
office.  The  street  was  dark  and  deserted. 

"Gosh!"  said  Ed,  "I  bet  the  town  pump's  froze  up  !" 

"It  doesn't  seem  very  cold,"  she  said  brightly. 

"Gee !  it's  below  zero  !  I  bet  'Rast  thinks  it's  pretty 
doggone  cold  up  there  by  your  gate." 

"Poor  'Rast!  His  mother  should  keep  him  indoors 
on  nights  like  this."  Ed  laughed  loud  and  long  and 
a  tingle  of  happiness  shot  through  his  erstwhile  shiv 
ering  frame.  "I'm  not  a  bit  cold,"  she  went  on. 
"See — feel  my  hand.  I'm  not  even  wearing  mittens." 

Ed  Higgins  gingerly  clasped  the  little  hand,  but  it 
was  withdrawn  at  once.  He  found  it  as  warm  as 
toast.  Words  of  love  surged  to  his  humble  lips;  his 
knees  felt  a  tendency  to  lower  themselves  precipi 
tously  to  the  frozen  sidewalk;  he  was  ready  to  grovel 
at  her  feet — and  he  wondered  if  they  were  as  warm 
as  toast.  But  'Rast  Little  came  up  at  that  instant  and 
the  chance  was  lost. 


io8        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Doggone !"  slipped  unconsciously  but  bitterly  from 
Ed's  lips. 


"Can  I  be  your  company  to  the  spellin'-bee  to 
morrow  night,  Miss  Banks?"  burst  unceremoniously 
from  the  lips  of  the  newcomer. 

"Thank  you,  'Rast.  I  was  just  wondering  how  I 
should  get  out  to  the  schoolhouse. '  You  are  very 
kind.  We'll  go  in  the  bob-sled  with  the  Holabirds." 

"Doggone!"  came  in  almost  a  wail  from  poor  Ed. 
He  could  have  killed  'Rast  for  the  triumphant  laugh 
that  followed. 

In  the  meantime  Anderson  Crow  was  preparing  to 
crawl  in  between  the  icy  sheets  at  home.  Mrs  Crow  was 
"sitting  up"  with  old  Mrs.  Luce,  who  was  ill  next  door. 

"She's  a  girl  with  a  past,"  reflected  Anderson.  "She's 


The  Spelling-Bee  109 

a  mystery,  that's  what  she  is;  but  I'll  unravel  her.  She 
had  a  mighty  good  reason  fer  sawin'  me  off  out  there 
to-day.  I  was  gittin'  too  close  home.  She  seen  I 
was  about  to  corner  her.  By  gum,  I  hope  she  don't 
suspect  nothin' !  She's  found  out  that  Ed  Higgins 
has  a  good  job  down  to  Lamson's  store,  an'  she's 
settin'  her  cap  fer  him.  It  shows  she'd  ruther  live 
in  the  city  than  in  the  country — so  it's  all  up  with 
'Rast.  That  proves  she's  from  Chicago  er  some  other 
big  place.  Ed's  gettin'  eight  dollars  a  week  down 
there  at  Lamson's.  By  gum,  that  boy's  doin'  well  1  I 
used  to  think  he  wouldn't  amount  to  nothin'.  It  shows 
that  the  best  of  us  git  fooled  in  a  feller  once  in  a 
while.  To-morrow  night  I'll  go  out  to  the  spellin'- 
match,  an'  when  the  chanct  comes  I'll  sidle  up  to  her 
an'  whisper  her  real  name  in  her  ear.  I  bet  four 
dollars  an'  a  half  that'll  fetch  her  purty  prompt. 
Doggone,  these  here  sheets  air  cold!  It's  forty  below 
zero  right  here  in  this  bed." 

Anderson  Crow  soon  slept,  but  he  did  not  dream  of 
the  tragedy  the  next  night  was  to  bring  upon  Tinkle- 
town,  nor  of  the  test  his  prowess  was  to  endure. 

The  next  night  and  the  "spellin'-bee"  at  school 
No.  5  came  on  apace  together.  It  was  bitterly  cold 
and  starlight.  By  eight  o'clock  the  warm  school- 
house  was  comfortably  filled  with  the  "spellers"  of 
the  neighbourhood,  their  numbers  increased  by  com 
petitors  from  Tinkletown  itself.  In  the  crowd  were 
men  and  women  who  time  after  time  had  "spelled 
down"  whole  companies,  and  who  were  eager  for  the 
conflict.  They  had  "studied  up"  on  their  spelling  for 


no        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

days  in  anticipation  of  a  hard  battle  in  the  words. 
Mrs.  Borum  and  Mrs.  Cartwill,  both  famous  for  their 
victories  and  for  the  rivalry  that  existed  between 
them,  were  selected  as  captains  of  the  opposing  sides, 
and  Miss  Banks  herself  was  to  "give  out"  the  words. 
The  captains  selected  their  forces,  choosing  alter 
nately  from  the  anxious  crowd  of  grown  folks.  There 
were  no  children  there,  for  it  was  understood  that 
big  words  would  be  given  out — words  children  could 
not  pronounce,  much  less  spell. 

The  teacher  was  amazingly  pretty  on  this  eventful 
night.  She  was  dressed  as  no  other  woman  in 
Bramble  County,  except  Rosalie  Gray,  could  have 
attired  herself — simply,  tastefully,  daintily.  Her  face 
was  flushed  and  eager  and  the  joy  of  living  glowed 
in  every  feature.  Ed  Higgins  and  'Rast  Little  were 
struck  senseless,  nerveless  by  this  vision  of  health  and 
loveliness.  Anderson  Crow  stealthily  admitted  to 
himself  that  she  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land; 
she  was  not  of  Tinkletown  or  any  place  like  it. 

Just  as  the  captains  were  completing  their  selections 
of  spellers  the  door  opened  and  three  strangers 
entered  the  school-room,  overcoated  and  furred  to 
the  tips  of  their  noses — two  men  and  a  woman.  As 
Miss  Banks  rushed  forward  to  greet  them — she  had 
evidently  been  expecting  them — the  startled  assem 
blage  caught  its  breath  and  stared.  To  the  further 
amazement  of  every  one,  Rosalie  hastened  to  her  side 
and  joined  in  the  effusive  welcome.  Every  word  of 
joyous  greeting  was  heard  by  the  amazed  listeners  and 
every  word  from  the  strangers  was  as  distinct.  Surely 


*'  THE    TEACHER     WAS    AMAZINGLY    PRETTY    ON    THIS    EVENTFUL 
NIGHT  " 


The  Spelling-Bee  1 1 1 

the  newcomers  were  friends  of  long  standing.  When 
their  heavy  wraps  were  removed  the  trio  stood  forth 
before  as  curious  an  audience  as  ever  sat  spellbound. 
The  men  were  young,  well  dressed  and  handsome; 
the  woman  a  beauty  of  the  most  dashing  type.  Tinkle- 
town's  best  spellers  quivered  with  excitement. 

''Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Miss  Banks,  her  voice 
trembling  with  eagerness,  "let  me  introduce  my 
friends,  Mrs.  Farnsworth,  Mr.  Farnsworth,  and  Mr. 
Reddon.  They  have  driven  over  to  attend  the  spell 
ing-match."  Ed  Higgins  and  'Rast  Little  observed 
with  sinking  hearts  that  it  was  Mr.  Reddon  whom  she 
led  forward  by  the  hand,  and  they  cursed  him  in 
wardly  for  the  look  he  gave  her — because  she  blushed 
beneath  it. 

"You  don't  live  in  Boggs  City,"  remarked  Mr. 
Crow,  appointing  himself  spokesman.  "I  c'n  deduce 
that,  'cause  you're  carrying  satchels  an'  valises." 

"Mr.  Crow  is  a  famous  detective,"  explained  Miss 
Banks.  Anderson  attempted  to  assume  an  unconscious 
pose,  but  in  leaning  back  he  missed  the  end  of  the 
bench,  and  sat  sprawling  upon  the  lap  of  Mrs.  Har- 
baugh.  As  Mrs.  Harbaugh  had  little  or  no  lap  to 
speak  of,  his  downward  course  was  diverted  but  not 
stayed.  He  landed  on  the  floor  with  a  grunt  that 
broke  simultaneously  with  the  lady's  squeak;  a  frac 
tion  of  a  second  later  a  roar  of  laughter  swept  the 
room.  It  was  many  minutes  before  quiet  was  restored 
and  the  "match"  could  be  opened.  Mrs.  Cartwill 
chose  Mrs.  Farnsworth  and  her  rival  selected  the 
husband  of  the  dashing  young  woman.  Mr.  Reddon 


1 1 2        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

firmly  and  significantly  announced  his  determination 
to  sit  near  the  teacher  "to  preserve  order,"  and  not 
enter  the  contest  of  words. 

Possibly  it  was  the  presence  of  the  strangers  that 
rattled  and  unnerved  the  famed  spellers  of  both  sides, 


for  it  was  not  long  until  the  lines  had  dwindled  to 
almost  nothing.  Three  or  four  arrogant  competitors 
stood  forth  and  valiantly  spelled  such  words  as  "Popo 
catepetl,"  "Tschaikowsky,"  "terpsichorean,"  "Yang- 
tse-Kiang,"  "Yseult,"  and  scores  of  words  that  could 
scarcely  be  pronounced  by  the  teacher  herself.  But 
at  last,  just  as  the  sleepy  watchers  began  to  nod  and 
yawn  the  hardest,  Mrs.  Cartwill  stood  alone  and  vie- 


The  Spelling-Bee  113 

torious,  her  single  opponent  having  gone  down  on 
the  word  "sassafras."  Anderson  Crow  had  "gone 
down"  early  in  the  match  by  spelling  "kerosene" 
"kerry-seen."  Ed  Higgins  followed  with  "ceriseen," 
and  'Rast  Little  explosively  had  it  "coal-oil." 

During  the  turmoil  incident  to  the  dispersing  of  the 
gathered  hosts  Miss  Banks  made  her  way  to  'Rast 
Little's  side  and  informed  him  that  the  Farnsworths 
were  to  take  her  to  Mrs.  Holabird's  in  their  big  sleigh. 
'Rast  was  floored.  When  he  started  to  remonstrate, 
claiming  to  be  her  "company,"  big  Tom  Reddon  in 
terposed  and  drew  Miss  Banks  away  from  her  lover's 
wrath. 

"But  I'm  so  sorry  for  him,  Tom,"  she  protested  con 
tritely.  "He  did  bring  me  here — in  a  way." 

"Well,  I'll  take  you  home  another  way,"  said  good- 
looking  Mr.  Reddon.  It  was  also  noticed  that  Rosalie 
Gray  had  much  of  a  confidential  nature  to  say  to  Miss 
Banks  as  they  parted  for  the  evening,  she  to  go  home 
in  Blucher  Peabody's  new  sleigh. 

'Rast  and  Ed  Higgins  almost  came  to  blows  out  at 
the  "hitch-rack,"  where  the  latter  began  twitting  his 
discomfited  rival.  Anderson  Crow  kept  them  apart. 

"I'll  kill  that  big  dude,"  growled  'Rast.  "He's  got 
no  business  comin'  here  an'  rakin'  up  trouble  between 
me  an'  her.  You  mark  my  words,  I'll  fix  him  before 
the  night's  over,  doggone  his  hide!" 

At  least  a  dozen  men,  including  Alf  Reesling,  heard 
this  threat,  and  not  one  of  them  was  to  forget  it  soon. 
Anderson  Crow  noticed  that  Mrs.  Holabird's  bob 
sled  drove  away  without  either  Miss  Banks  or  'Rast 


114       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Little  in  its  capacious  depths.  Miss  Banks  announced 
that  her  three  friends  from  the  city  and  she  would  stay 
behind  and  close  the  schoolhouse,  putting  everything 
in  order.  It  was  Friday  night,  and  there  would  be 
no  session  until  the  following  Monday.  Mr.  Crow 
was  very  sleepy  for  a  detective.  He  snored  all  the 
way  home. 

The  next  morning  two  farmers  drove  madly  into 
Tinkletown  with  the  astounding  news  that  some  one 
had  been  murdered  at  schoolhouse  No.  5.  In  passing 
the  place  soon  after  daybreak  they  had  noticed  blood 
on  the  snow  at  the  roadside.  The  school-room  door 
was  half  open  and  they  entered.  Blood  in  great  quan 
tities  smeared  the  floor  near  the  stove,  but  there  was 
no  sign  of  humanity,  alive  or  dead.  Miss  Banks's 
handkerchief  was  found  on  the  floor  saturated. 

Moreover,  the  school-teacher  was  missing.  She  had 
not  returned  to  the  home  of  Mrs.  Holabird  the  night 
before.  To  make  the  horror  all  the  more  ghastly, 
Anderson  Crow,  hastening  to  the  schoolhouse,  posi 
tively  identified  the  blood  as  that  of  Miss  Banks. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
A  Tinkletown  Sensation 

SENSATIONS  came  thick  and  fast  in  Tinkletown  dur 
ing  the  next  few  hours.  Investigation  proved  that 
'Rast  Little  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  He  had  not 
returned  to  his  home  after  the  spelling-bee,  nor  had 
he  been  seen  since.  Mrs.  Holabird  passed  him  in  the 
road  on  her  way  home  in  the  "bob-sled."  In  response 
to  her  command  to  "climb  in"  he  sullenly  said  he 
was  going  to  walk  home  by  a  "short  cut"  through  the 
woods.  A  farmer  had  seen  the  stylish  Farnsworth 
sleigh  driving  north  furiously  at  half-past  eleven,  the 
occupants  huddled  in  a  bunch  as  if  to  protect  them 
selves  from  the  biting  air.  The  witness  was  not  able 
to  tell  "which  was  which"  in  the  sleigh,  but  he  added 
interest  to  the  situation  by  solemnly  asserting  that  one 
of  the  persons  in  the  rear  seat  was  "bundled  up"  more 
than  the  rest,  and  evidently  was  unable  to  sit  erect. 

According  to  his  tale,  the  figure  was  lying  over 
against  the  other  occupant  of  the  seat.  He  was  also, 
positive  that  there  were  three  figures  in  the  front  seat ! 
Who  was  the  extra  person?  was  the  question  that 
flashed  into  the  minds  of  the  listeners.  A  small  boy 
came  to  the  schoolhouse  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing  with  'Rast  Little's  new  derby  hat.  He  had  picked 
it  up  at  the  roadside  not  far  from  the  schoolhouse  and 
in  the  direction  taken  by  the  Farnsworth  party. 


1 1 6       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Anderson  gave  orders  that  no  word  of  the  catas 
trophe  be  carried  to  Rosalie,  who  was  reported  to  be 

ill  of  a  fever  the 
next  morning  after 
the  spelling-bee. 
She  had  a  cough, 
and  the  doctor  had 
said  that  nothing 
should  be  said  or 
done  to  excite  her. 
The  crowd  at  the 
schoolhouse  grew 
larger  as  the  morn 
ing  passed  Every- 
b  o  d  y  talked  in 
whispers;  every 
body  was  mystified 
beyond  belief.  All 
eyes  were  turned 
to  Anderson  Crow, 
who  stood  aloof, 
pondering  as  he 
had  never  pon 
dered  before.  In 
one  hand  he  held 
Miss  Banks's 
bloody  handker 
chief  and  in  the 
other  a  common 
school  text-book  on 
physiology.  His 


A  Tinkletown  Sensation  117 

badges  and  stars  fairly  revelled  in  their  own  im 
portance. 

"Don't  pester  him  with  questions,"  warned  Isaac 
Porter,  addressing  Alf  Reesling,  the  town  drunkard, 
who  had  just  arrived. 

"But  I  got  something  I  want  to  say  to  him,"  per 
sisted  Alf  eagerly.  Two  or  three  strong  men  re 
strained  him. 

"Thunderation,  Alf,"  whispered  Elon  Jones,  "cain't 
you  see  he's  figurin'  something  out?  You're  liable 
to  throw  him  clear  off  the  track  if  you  say  a  word 
to  him." 

"Well,  this  is  something  he'd  oughter  know,"  al 
most  whimpered  Alf,  rubbing  his  frozen  ears. 

"Sh!"  muttered  the  bystanders,  and  poor  Alf  sub 
sided.  He  was  unceremoniously  hustled  into  the 
background  as  Mr.  Crow  moved  from  the  window 
toward  the  group. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Anderson  gravely,  "there  is 
somethin'  wrong  here."  It  is  barely  possible  that  this 
was  not  news  to  the  crowd,  but  with  one  accord  they 
collectively  and  severally  exchanged  looks  of  appreci 
ation.  "I've  been  readin'  up  a  bit  on  the  human 
body,  an'  I've  proved  one  thing  sure  in  my  own 
mind." 

"You  bet  you  have,  Anderson,"  said  Elon  Jones. 
"It's  all  settled.  Let's  go  home." 

"Settled  nothin' !"  said  the  marshal.  "It's  jest  be 
gun.  Here's  what  I  deduce :  Miss  Banks  has  been 
foully  dealt  with.  Ain't  this  her  blood,  an'  ain't  she 
used  her  own  individual  handkerchief  to  stop  it  up? 


1 1 8        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

It's  blood  right  square  from  her  heart,  gentle 
men!" 

"I  don't  see  how — "  began  Ed  Higgins;  but  Ander 
son  silenced  him  with  a  look. 

"Of  course  you  don't,  but  you  would  if  you'd  'a' 
been  a  detective  as  long  's  I  have.  What  in  thunder 
do  you  s'pose  I  got  these  badges  and  these  medals 
fer?  Fer  not  seein'  how?  No,  siree!  I  got  'em  fer 
seem'  how;  that's  what!" 

"But,  Andy " 

"Don't  call  me  'Andy,'  "  commanded  Mr.  Crow. 

"Well,  then,  Anderson,  I'd  like  to  know  how  the 
dickens  she  could  use  her  own  handkerchief  if  she  was 
stabbed  to  the  heart,"  protested  Ed.  He  had  been 
crying  half  the  time.  Anderson  was  stunned  for  the 
moment. 

"Why — why — now,  look  here,  Ed  Higgins,  I  ain't 
got  time  to  explain  things  to  a  derned  idgit  like  you. 
Everybody  else  understands  how,  don't  you?"  and  he 
turned  to  the  crowd.  Everybody  said  yes.  "Well, 
that  shows  what  a  fool  you  are,  Ed.  Don't  bother 
me  any  more.  I've  got  work  to  do." 

"Say,  Anderson,"  began  Alf  Reesling  from  the  outer 
circle,  "I  got  something  important  to  tell " 

"Who  is  that?  Alf  Reesling?"  cried  Anderson 
wrathfully. 

"Yes;  I  want  to  see  you  private,  Anderson.  It's 
important,"  begged  Alf. 

"How  many  times  have  I  got  to  set  down  on  you, 
Alf  Reesling?"  exploded  Anderson.  "Doggone,  I'd 
like  to  know  how  a  man's  to  solve  mysteries  if  he's 


A  Tinkletown  Sensation  1 1  9 

got  to  stand  around  half  the  time  an'  listen  to  fambly 
quarrels.  Tell  yer  wife  I'll " 

"This  ain't  no  family  quarrel.  Besides,  I  ain't  got 
no  wife.  It's  about  this  here " 

"That'll  do,  now,  Alf !  Not  another  word  out  of 
you !"  commanded  Anderson  direfully. 

"But,  dern  you,  Anderson,"  exploded  Alf,  "I've  got 
to  tell  you — 

But  Anderson  held  up  a  hand. 

"Don't  swear  in  the  presence  of  the  dead,"  he  said 
solemnly.  "You're  drunk,  Alf ;  go  home  !"  And  Alf, 
news  and  all  was  hustled  from  the  schoolhouse  by  a 
self-appointed  committee  of  ten. 

"Now,  we'll  search  fer  the  body,"  announced  Ander 
son.  "Git  out  of  the  way,  Bud!" 

"I  ain't  standin'  on  it,"  protested  twelve-year-old 
Bud  Long. 

"Well,  you're  standin'  mighty  near  them  blood 
stains  an' 

"Yes,  'n  ain't  blood  a  part  of  the  body?"  rasped 
Isaac  Porter  scornfully;  whereupon  Bud  faded  into 
the  outer  rim. 

"First  we'll  look  down  cellar,"  said  Mr.  Crow. 
"Where's  the  cellar  at?" 

"There  ain't  none,"  replied  Elon  Jones. 

"What?  No  cellar?  Well,  where  in  thunder  did 
they  hide  the  body,  then?" 

"There's  an  attic,"  ventured  Joe  Perkins. 

A  searching  party  headed  by  Anderson  Crow 
shinned  up  the  ladder  to  the  low  garret.  No  trace 
of  a  body  was  to  be  found,  and  the  searchers  came 


I2o       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

down  rather  thankfully.  Then,  under  Mr.  Crow's 
direction,  they  searched  the  wood  piles,  the  woods, 
and  the  fields  for  many  rods  in  all  directions.  At 
noon  they  congregated  at  the  schoolhouse.  Alf  Rees- 
ling  was  there. 

"Find  it?"  said  he  thickly,  with  a  cunning  leer.  He 
had  been  drinking.  Anderson  was  tempted  to  club 
him  half  to  death,  but  instead  he  sent  him  home  with 
Joe  Perkins,  refusing  absolutely  to  hear  what  the 
town  drunkard  had  to  say. 

"Well,  you'll  wish  you'd  listened  to  me,"  ominously 
hiccoughed  Alf;  and  then,  as  a  parting  shot,  "I 
wouldn't  tell  you  now  fer  eighteen  dollars  cash.  You 
c'n  go  to  thunder!"  It  was  lese  majeste,  but  the 
crowd  did  nothing  worse  than  stare  at  the  offender. 

Before  starting  off  on  the  trail  of  the  big  sleigh, 
Anderson  sent  this  message  by  wire  to  the  lawyers 
in  Chicago: 

"/  have  found  the  girl  you  want,  but  the  body  is 
lost.  Would  you  just  as  soon  have  her  dead  as 
alive? 

"ANDERSON  CROW." 

In  a  big  bob-sled  the  marshal  and  a  picked  sextette 
of  men  set  off  at  one  o'clock  on  the  road  over  which 
the  sleigh  had  travelled  many  hours  before.  Ander 
son  had  failed  to  report  the  suspected  crime  to  the 
sheriff  at  Boggs  City  and  was  working  alone  on  the 
mystery.  He  said  he  did  not  want  anybody  from 
town  interfering  with  his  affairs. 

"Say,  Andy — Anderson,"  said  Harry  Squires,  now 


A  Tinkletown  Sensation  1 2 1 

editor  of  the  Banner,  "maybe  we're  hunting  the  wrong 
body  and  the  wrong  people." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  ain't  'Rast  Little  missing?  Maybe  he's  been 
killed,  eh?  And  say,  ain't  there  some  chance  that  he 
did  the  killing?  Didn't  he  say  he  was  going  to 
murder  that  city  chap?  Well,  supposing  he  did. 
We're  on  the  wrong  track,  ain't  we?" 

"Doggone  you,  Harry,  that  don't  fit  in  with  my  de 
ductions,"  wailed  Anderson.  "I  wish  you'd  let  me 
alone.  'Rast  may  have  done  the  killin',  but  it's  our 
place  to  find  the  body,  ain't  it?  Whoever  has  been 
slew  was  taken  away  last  night  in  the  sleigh.  S'posin 
it  was  Mr.  Reddon !  Well,  consarn  it,  ain't  he  got 
a  body  same  as  anybody  else?  We've  just  got  to  find 
somebody's  body,  that's  all.  We've  got  to  prove  the 
corpus  deelicti.  Drive  up,  Bill!" 

With  a  perseverance  that  spoke  well  for  the  de 
tective's  endurance,  but  ill  for  his  intelligence,  the 
"bob"  sped  along  aimlessly.  It  was  ridiculous  to 
think  of  tracking  a  sleigh  over  a  well-travelled  road, 
and  it  was  not  until  they  reached  the  cross-roads  that 
Harry  Squires  suggested  that  inquiries  be  made  of  the 
farmers  in  the  neighbourhood.  After  diligent  effort, 
a  farmer  was  discovered  who  said  he  had  heard  the 
sleigh  bells  at  midnight,  and,  peering  from  his  win 
dow,  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  party  turning  south 
at  the  cross-roads. 

"Jest  as  I  thought!"  exclaimed  Anderson.  "They 
went  south  so  's  to  skip  Boggs  City.  Boys,  they've  got 
her  body  er  'Rast's  body  er  that  other  feller's  body 


122        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

with  'em,  an'  they're  skootin'  down  this  pike  so's  to 
get  to  the  big  bridge.  My  idee  is  that  they  allowed 
to  drop  the  body  in  the  river,  which  ain't  friz  plum 
over." 

"Gee !  We  ain't  expected  to  search  all  over  the 
bottom  of  the  river,  are  we,  Anderson?"  shivered 
Isaac  Porter,  the  pump  repairer. 

"I  ain't,"  said  the  leader,  "but  I  can  deputise  any 
body  I  want  to." 

And  so  they  hurried  on  to  the  six-span  bridge  that 
crossed  the  ice-laden  river.  As  they  stood  silent,  awed 
and  shivering  on  the  middle  span,  staring  down  into 
the  black  water  with  its  navy  of  swirling  ice-chunks, 
even  the  heart  of  Anderson  Crow  chilled  and  grew 
faint. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "we've  lost  the  track!  Not  even 
a  bloodhound  could  track  'em  in  that  water." 

"Bloodhound?"  sniffed  Harry  Squires.  "A  hippo 
potamus,  you  mean." 

They  were  hungry  and  cold,  and  they  were  ready 
to  turn  homeward.  Anderson  said  he  "guessed"  he'd 
turn  the  job  over  to  the  sheriff  and  his  men.  Plainly, 
he  was  much  too  hungry  to  do  any  more  trailing. 
Besides,  for  more  than  an  hour  he  had  been  thinking 
of  the  warm  wood  fire  at  home.  Bill  Rubley  was 
putting  the  "gad"  to  the  horses  when  a  man  on  horse 
back  rode  up  from  the  opposite  end  of  the  bridge. 
He  had  come  far  and  in  a  hurry,  and  he  recognised 
Anderson  Crow. 

"Say,  Anderson !"  he  called,  "somebody  broke  into 
Colonel  Randall's  summer  home  last  night  an'  they're 


A  Tinkletown  Sensation  123 

there  yet.  Got  fires  goin'  in  all  the  stoves,  an'  havin* 
a  high  old  time.  They  ain't  got  no  business  there, 
becuz  the  place  is  closed  fer  the  winter.  Aleck  Bur- 
bank  went  over  to  order  'em  out;  one  of  the  fellers 
said  he'd  bust  his  head  if  he  didn't  clear  out.  I  think 
it's  a  gang!" 

A  hurried  interview  brought  out  the  facts.  The 
invaders  had  come  up  in  a  big  sleigh  long  before 
dawn,  and — but  that  was  sufficient.  Anderson  and  his 
men  returned  to  the  hunt,  eager  and  sure  of  their  prey. 
Darkness  was  upon  them  when  they  came  in  sight  of 
Colonel  Randall's  country  place  in  the  hills.  There 
were  lights  in  the  windows  and  people  were  making 
merry  indoors ;  while  outside  the  pursuing  Nemesis  and 
his  men  were  wondering  how  and  where  to  assault 
the  stronghold. 

"I'll  jest  walk  up  an'  rap  on  the  door,"  said  Ander 
son  Crow,  "lettin'  on  to  be  a  tramp.  I'll  ast  fer 
somethin'  to  eat  an'  a  place  to  sleep.  While  I'm  out 
there  in  the  kitchen  eatin'  you  fellers  c'n  sneak  up  an' 
surround  us.  Then  you  c'n  let  on  like  you're  lookin* 
fer  me  because  I'd  robbed  a  hen-roost  er  something, 
an'  that'll  get  'em  off  their  guard.  Once  we  all 
git  inside  the  house  with  these  shotguns  we've  got  'em 
where  we  want  'em.  Then  I'll  make  'em  purduce  the 
body." 

"Don't  we  git  anythin'  to  eat,  too?"  demanded 
Isaac  Porter  faintly. 

"The  horses  ain't  had  nothin'  to  eat,  Ike,"  said 
Anderson.  "Ain't  you  as  good  as  a  horse?" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  Case  of  Mistaken  Identity 

DETECTIVE  CROW  found  little  difficulty  in  gaining 
admittance  to  Colonel  Randall's  summer  home.  He 
had  secreted  his  badge,  and  it  was  indeed  a  sorry- 
looking  tramp  who  asked  for  a  bite  to  eat  at  the 
kitchen  door. 

Three  or  four  young  women  were  busy  with  chafing 
dishes  in  this  department  of  the  house,  and  some  good- 
looking  young  men  were  looking  on  and  bothering 
them  with  attentions.  In  the  front  part  of  the 
house  a  score  of  people  were  laughing  and  making 
merry. 

"Gosh!"  said  the  new  tramp,  twisting  his  chin 
whiskers,  "how  many  of  you  are  there?" 

"Oh,  there  are  many  more  at  home  like  us,"  trilled 
out  one  of  the  young  women  gaily.  "You're  just  in 
time,  you  poor  old  thing,  to  have  some  of  the  bride- 
to-be's  cake." 

"I  guess  I'm  in  the  wrong  house,"  murmured  Ander 
son  blankly.  **Is  it  a  weddin'?" 

"No;  but  there  will  be  one  before  many  days.  It's 
just  a  reunion.  How  I  wish  Rosalie  Gray  were 
here!"  cried  another  girl. 

Just  then  there  was  a  pounding  on  the  door,  and  an 
instant  later  Isaac  Porter  stalked  in  at  the  head  of  the 
posse. 


A  Case  of  Mistaken  Identity  125 

"Throw  up  your  hands!"  called  Anderson,  address 
ing  himself  to  the  posse,  the  members  of  which 
stopped  in  blank  amazement.  Some  of  them  oblig 
ingly  stuck  their  hands  on  high.  "What  do  you  want 
here?" 

"We — we — we're  lookin'  fer  a  tramp  who  said  he 
robbed  a  hen  roost,"  faltered  Isaac  Porter. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  called  a  strong 
voice  from  the  dining-room,  and  the  flabbergasted 
Tinkletownians  turned  to  face  Colonel  Randall  him 
self,  the  owner  of  the  house. 

"Derned  if  I  know!"  muttered  Anderson  Crow; 
and  he  spoke  the  truth. 

"Why,  it's  Anderson  Crow!"  cried  a  gay  young 
voice. 

"Jumpin'  Jehosophat!"  ejaculated  the  detective; 
"it's  the  body!" 

"The  school-teacher!"  exclaimed  the  surprised 
Tinkletownians,  as  with  their  eyes  they  proceeded  to 
search  the  figure  before  them  for  blood  stains.  But 
no  sooner  had  the  chorused  \vords  escaped  their  lips 
than  they  realised  how  wretchedly  commonplace  was 
their  blundering  expression  in  comparison  with  the 
faultlessly  professional  phraseology  of  their  leader; 
and,  overwhelmed  with  mortification,  the  posse  ached 
to  recall  them;  for  that  the  correct  technical  term  had 
been  applied  by  one  for  years  trained  to  the  vernacular 
of  his  calling  was  little  consolation  to  these  sensitive 
souls,  now  consumed  with  envy. 

In  the  meantime,  the  quarry,  if  we  may  be  permitted 
so  to  designate  her,  stood  before  them  as  pretty  as 


1 2  6        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

a  picture.  At  her  side  was  Tom  Reddon,  and  a  dozen 
guests  of  the  house  fell  in  behind  them. 

"Did  Rosalie  tell  you?"  demanded  Miss  Banks. 
"The  mean  thing!  She  said  she  wouldn't." 

"Ro — Rosalie !"  gasped  Anderson;  "tell  me  what?" 
nervously. 

"That  I  was — was  coming  over  here  with  Tom. 
Didn't  she  tell  you?" 

"I  should  say  not.  If  she'd  told  me  you  don't  sup 
pose  I'd  'a'  driv'  clear  over  here  in  this  kinder  weather 
fer  nothin',  do  you  ?  Thunder !  Did  she  know  'bout 
it?" 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Crow.    She  helped  with  the  plans." 

"Well,  good  gosh  a'mighty!  An'  we  was  a-keepin' 
from  her  the  awful  news  fer  fear  'twould  give  her  a 
backset." 

"Awful  news!  What  do  you  mean?  Oh,  you 
frighten  me  terribly !" 

"Doggone !  I  don't  believe  Rosalie  was  sick  at  all," 
continued  Anderson,  quite  regardless  of  the  im 
patience  of  his  listeners;  "she  jest  wanted  to  keep 
from  answerin'  questions.  She  jest  regularly  let 
everybody  believe  you  had  been  slaughtered,  an' 
never  opened  her  mouth." 

"Slaughtered4!"  cried  half  a  dozen  people. 

"Sure!     Hain't  you  heard  'bout  the  murder?" 

"Murder?"  apprehensively  from  the  excited  New 
Yorkers.  • 

"Yes — the  teacher  of  schoolhouse  No.  5  was  brutally 
butchered  las — las — night — by " 

"Go  slow,  Anderson!     Better  hold  your  horses!" 


"  '  WHAT   is   THE   MEANING   OF   ALL   THIS?'" 


A  Case  of  Mistaken  Identity  127 

cautioned  Harry  Squires.  "Don't  forget  the  body's 
alive  and  kic — "  and  stopping  short,  in  the  hope  that 
his  break  might  escape  the  school-teacher's  attention, 
he  confusedly  substituted,  "and  here." 

Anderson's  jaw  dropped,  but  the  movement  was 
barely  perceptible,  the  discomfiture  temporary,  for  to 
the  analytical  mind  of  the  great  detective  the  fact  that 
a  murder  had  been  committed  was  fully  established 
by  the  discovery  of  the  blood.  That  a  body  was 
obviously  necessary  for  the  continuance  of  further  in 
vestigations  he  frankly  acknowledged  to  himself;  and 
not  for  one  instant  would  any  supposition  or  explana 
tion  other  than  assassination  be  tolerated.  And  it  was 
with  unshaken  conviction  that  he  declared: 

"Well,  somebody  was  slew,  wasn't  they?  That's 
as  plain  's  the  nose  on  y'r  face.  Don't  you  contra 
dict  me,  Harry  Squires.  I  guess  Anderson  Crow 
knows  blood  when  he  sees  it." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you've  been  trailing  us 
all  day  in  the  belief  that  some  one  of  us  had  killed 
somebody?"  demanded  Tom  Reddon. 

Harry  Squires  explained  the  situation,  Anderson  be 
ing  too  far  gone  to  step  into  the  breach.  It  may  be 
of  interest  to  say  that  the  Tinkletown  detective  was 
the  sensation  of  the  hour.  The  crowd,  merry  once 
more,  lauded  him  to  the  skies  for  the  manner  in  which 
the  supposed  culprits  had  been  trailed,  and  the  mar 
shal's  pomposity  grew  almost  to  the  bursting  point. 

"But  how  about  that  blood?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes,"  said  Harry  Squires  with  a  sly  grin,  "it  was 
positively  identified  as  yours,  Miss  Banks." 


1 2  8        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Well,  it's  the  first  time  I  was  ever  fooled,"  con 
fessed  Anderson  glibly.  "I'll  have  to  admit  it.  The 
blood  really  belonged  to  'Rast  Little.  Boys,  the 
seegars  are  on  me." 

"No,  they're  on  me,"  exclaimed  Tom  Reddon,  pro 
ducing  a  box  of  Perfectos. 

"But,  Miss  Banks,  you  are  wanted  in  Chicago,"  in 
sisted  Anderson.  Reddon  interrupted  him. 

"Right  you  are,  my  dear  Sherlock,  and  I'm  going 
to  take  her  there  as  soon  as  I  can.  It's  what  I  came 
East  for." 

"Ain't — I  mean,  wasn't  you  Miss  Lovering?"  mut 
tered  Anderson  Crow. 

"Good  heavens,  no!"  cried  Miss  Banks.  "Who  is 
she — a  shoplifter?" 

"I'll  tell  you  the  story,  Mr.  Crow,  if  you'll  come 
with  me,"  said  Mr.  Farnsworth,  stepping  forward 
with  a  wink. 

In  the  library  he  told  the  Tinkletown  posse  that  Tom 
Reddon  had  met  Miss  Banks  while  she  was  at  school 
in  New  York.  He  was  a  Chicago  millionaire's  son 
and  she  was  the  daughter  of  wealthy  New  York 
people.  Her  mother  was  eager  to  have  the  young 
people  marry,  but  the  girl  at  that  time  imagined  her 
self  to  be  in  love  with  another  man.  In  a  pique  she 
left  school  and  set  forth  to  earn  her  own  living.  A 
year's  hardship  as  governess  in  the  family  of  Con 
gressman  Ritchey  and  subsequent  disillusionment  as  a 
country  school-teacher  brought  her  to  her  senses  and 
she  realised  that  she  cared  for  Tom  Reddon  after 
all.  She  and  Miss  Gray  together  prepared  the  letter 


A  Case  of  Mistaken  Identity  129 

which  told  Reddon  where  she  could  be  found,  and  that 
eager  young  gentleman  did  the  rest.  He  had  been 
waiting  for  months  for  just  such  a  message  from  her. 
The  night  of  the  spelling-match  he  induced  her  to 
come  to  Colonel  Randall's,  and  now  the  whole  house- 
party,  including  Miss  Banks,  was  to  leave  on  the 
following  day  for  New  York.  The  marriage  would 
take  place  in  a  very  few  weeks. 

"I'll  accept  your  explanation,"  said  Mr.  Crow  com 
posedly  as  he  took  a  handful  of  cigars.  "Well,  I 
guess  I'll  be  startin'  back.  It's  gettin'  kind  o'  late- 
like." 

There  was  a  telegram  at  the  livery  stable  for  him 
when  he  reached  that  haven  of  warmth  and  rest  in 
Tinkletown  about  dawn  the  next  day.  It  was  from 
Chicago  and  marked  "Charges  collect." 

"What  girl  and  whose  body,"  it  said,  "do  you  refer 
to?  Miss  Levering  has  been  dead  two  years,  and  we 
are  settling  the  estate  in  behalf  of  the  other  heirs. 
We  were  trying  to  establish  her  place  of  residence. 
Never  mind  the  body  you  have  lost." 

"Doggone,"  said  Anderson,  chuckling  aloud,  "that 
was  an  awful  good  joke  on  'Rast,  wasn't  it?" 

The  stablemen  stood  around  and  looked  at  him  with 
jaws  that  were  drooping  helplessly.  The  air  seemed 
laden  with  a  sombre  uncertainty  that  had  not  yet  suc 
ceeded  in  penetrating  the  nature  of  Marshal  Crow. 

"Is  it  from  her?"  finally  asked  Ike  Smith  hoarsely, 
his  lips  trembling. 

"From  what  her?" 


130        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Rosalie." 
"Thunder,  no! 
It's  from  my  law 
yers  in  Chicago." 

"Ain't  you — ain't 
you  heerd  about 
it?"  half  groaned 
Ike,  moving  away 
as  if  he  expected 
something  calam 
itous. 

"What  the  dick 
ens  are  you  fellers 
drivin'  at?"  de 
manded  Anderson. 
The  remainder  of 
his  posse  deserted 
the  red-hot  stove 
and  drew  near  with  the  instinctive  feeling  that  some 
thing  dreadful  had  happened. 

"Ro — Rosalie  has  been  missin'  sence  early  last  night. 
She  was  grabbed  by  some  feller  near  Mrs.  Luce's, 
chucked  into  a  big  wagon  an'  rushed  out  of  town 
before  Ros  Crow  could  let  out  a  yell.  Clean  stole 
her — look  out !  Ketch  him,  Joe !" 
Anderson  dropped  limply  into  a  hostler's  arms. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Rosalie  Disappears 

THINGS  had  happened  in  Tinkletown  that  night.  Alf 
Reesling  finally  found  some  one  who  would  listen  to 
his  story.  He  told  the  minister  and  the  minister 
alarmed  the  town.  To  be  brief,  Alf  admitted  that 
'Rast  Little  was  at  his  house  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
village,  laid  up  with  a  broken  arm  and  a  bad  cut  in 
the  top  of  his  head. 

"He  came  crawlin'  up  to  my  place  about  six  o'clock 
in  the  mornin',"  explained  Alf,  "an'  I  took  the  poor 
cuss  in.  That's  what  I  wanted  to  tell  Anderson,  but 
the  old  rip  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  Seems  as  though 
'Rast  waited  around  the  schoolhouse  last  night  to  git 
a  crack  at  that  feller  from  town.  Miss  Banks  and 
her  three  friends  set  around  the  stove  in  the  school- 
house  for  about  an  hour  after  the  crowd  left,  an'  'Rast 
got  so  cold  he  liked  to  died  out  there  in  the  woodshed. 

"Purty  soon  they  all  come  out,  an'  'Rast  cut  acrost 
the  lot  to  git  inside  the  house  by  the  fire.  He  was  so 
derned  cold  that  he  didn't  feel  like  crackin'  anybody. 
When  they  wasn't  lookin'  he  sneaked  inside.  Jest 
as  he  was  gittin'  ready  to  hug  the  stove  he  heard  Miss 
Banks  an'  one  of  the  men  comin'  back.  He  shinned 
up  the  ladder  into  the  garret  just  in  time.  In  they 
come  an'  the  feller  lit  a  lamp.  'Rast  could  hear  'em 
talkin'.  She  said  good-bye  to  the  schoolhouse  for- 


132        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

ever,  an'  the  feller  kissed  her  a  couple  of  times.  'Rast 
pretty  nigh  swore  out  loud  at  that.  Then  she  said 
she'd  leave  a  note  in  her  desk  fer  the  trustees,  resignin' 
her  job,  er  whatever  she  called  it.  He  heard  her  read 
the  note  to  the  man,  an'  it  said  somethin'  about  goin' 
away  unexpected  to  git  married.  'Rast  says  ef 
Anderson  had  looked  in  the  desk  he'd  have  found 
the  note. 

''Then  she 
packed  up  some 
books  an'  her  an' 
the  feller  went  out. 
'Rast  was  paral 
ysed.  He  heerd 
the  s  1  e  i  g  h-b  ells 
jingle  an'  then  he 
come  to.  He 
started  down  the 
ladder  so  quick 
that  he  missed  his 
hold  and  went  ker 
slam  clear  to  the 
bottom.  Doggone 
ef  he  didn't  light 
on  his  head,  too. 
He  don't  know 
how  long  he  laid 
there,  but  finally 
he  was  resurrected 
enough  to  crawl 
over  by  the  stove. 


Rosalie  Disappears  133 

His  arm  was  broke  an'  he  was  bleedin'  like  a  stuck 
hog.  Miss  Banks  had  left  her  handkerchief  on  the 
desk,  an'  he  says  he  tried  to  bind  up  his  head  with  it, 
but  it  was  too  infernal  small.  Somehow  he  got  out 
side  an'  wandered  around  half  crazy  fer  a  long  time, 
finally  pullin'  up  at  my  house,  derned  nigh  froze  to 
death  an'  so  weak  he  couldn't  walk  no  more.  He'd 
lost  his  hat  an'  his  ear  muffs  an'  his  way  all  at  the 
same  time.  If  Anderson  had  let  me  talk  this  mornin' 
he'd  'a'  knowed  there  wasn't  no  murder.  It  was  just 
a  match." 

Hours  passed  before  Anderson  was  himself  again 
and  able  to  comprehend  the  details  of  the  story  which 
involved  the  disappearance  of  his  ward.  It  slowly 
filtered  through  his  mind  as  he  sat  stark-eyed  and 
numb  before  the  kitchen  fire  that  this  was  the  means 
her  mysterious  people  had  taken  to  remove  her  from 
his  custody.  The  twenty  years  had  expired,  and  they 
had  come  to  claim  their  own.  There  was  gloom  in 
the  home  of  Anderson  Crow — gloom  so  dense  that 
death  would  have  seemed  bright  in  comparison. 
Mrs.  Crow  was  prostrated,  Anderson  in  a  state  of 
mental  and  physical  collapse,  the  children  hysterical. 

All  Tinkletown  stood  close  and  ministered  dumbly 
to  the  misery  of  the  bereaved  ones,  but  made  no  effort 
to  follow  or  frustrate  the  abductors.  The  town 
seemed  as  helpless  as  the  marshal,  not  willingly  or 
wittingly,  but  because  it  had  so  long  known  him  as 
leader  that  no  one  possessed  the  temerity  to  step  into 
his  place,  even  in  an  hour  of  emergency. 

A  dull  state  of  paralysis  fell  upon  the  citizens,  big 


134        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

and  little.  It  was  as  if  universal  palsy  had  been  or 
dained  to  pinch  the  limbs  and  brains  of  Tinkletown 
until  the  hour  came  for  the  rehabilitation  of  Ander 
son  Crow  himself.  No  one  suggested  a  move  in  any 
direction — in  fact,  no  one  felt  like  moving  at  all. 
Everything  stood  stockstill  while  Anderson  slowly 
pulled  himself  together;  everything  waited  dumbly 
for  its  own  comatose  condition  to  be  dispelled  by  the 
man  who  had  been  hit  the  hardest. 

It  was  not  until  late  in  the  afternoon  that  Blucher 
Peabody,  the  druggist,  awoke  from  his  lethargy  and 
moved  as  though  he  intended  to  take  the  initiative. 
"Blootch"  was  Rosalie's  most  persistent  admirer.  He 
had  fallen  heir  to  his  father's  apothecary  shop  and 
notion  store,  and  he  was  regarded  as  one  of  the  best 
catches  in  town.  He  approached  the  half-frozen 
crowd  that  huddled  near  old  Mrs.  Luce's  front  gate. 
In  this  crowd  were  some  of  the  prominent  men  of 
the  town,  young  and  old;  they  left  their  places  of 
business  every  half  hour  or  so  and  wandered  aim 
lessly  to  the  now  historic  spot,  as  if  drawn  by  a  mag 
net.  Just  why  they  congregated  there  no  one  could 
explain  and  no  one  attempted  to  do  so.  Presumably 
it  was  because  the  whole  town  centred  its  mind  on  one 
of  two  places — the  spot  where  Rosalie  was  seized  or 
the  home  of  Anderson  Crow.  When  they  were  not 
at  Mrs.  Luce's  gate  they  were  tramping  through 
Anderson's  front  yard  and  into  his  house. 

"Say,"  said  "Blootch"  so  loudly  that  the  crowd  felt 
like  remonstrating  with  him,  "what's  the  use  of  all 
this?" 


Rosalie  Disappears  135 

/>  No  one  re 
sponded.  No  one 
was  equal  to  it  on 
such  short  notice. 

"We've  got  to  do 
something  besides 
stand  around  and 
whisper,"  he  said. 
"We've  got  to  find 
Rosalie  Gray." 

"But  good  gosh!" 
ejaculated     Isaac 
Porter,     "they've 
got   purty   nigh    a 
day's  start  of  us." 

"Well,  that  don't  matter.  Anderson  would  do  as 
much  for  us.  Let's  get  a  move  on." 

"But  where  in  thunder  will  we  hunt?"  murmured 
George  Ray. 

"To  the  end  of  the  earth,"  announced  Blootch,  in 
flating  his  chest  and  slapping  it  violently,  a  strangely 
personal  proceeding,  which  went  unnoticed.  He  had 
reached  the  conclusion  that  his  chance  to  be  a  hero 
was  at  hand  and  not  to  be  despised.  Here  was  the 
opportunity  to  outstrip  all  of  his  competitors  in  the 
race  for  Rosalie's  favour.  It  might  be  confessed  that, 
with  all  his  good  intentions,  his  plans  were  hopelessly 
vague.  The  group  braced  up  a  little  at  the  sound  of 
his  heroic  words. 

"But  the  derned  thing's  round,"  was  the  only  thing 
Ed  Higgins  could  find  to  say.  Ed,  as  fickle  as  the 


136        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

wind,  was  once  more  deeply  in  love  with  Rosalie, 
having  switched  from  Miss  Banks  immediately  after 
the  visit  to  Colonel  Randall's. 

"Aw,  you  go  to  Guinea!"  was  Blootch's  insulting 
reply.  Nothing  could  be  more  disparaging  than  that, 
but  Ed  failed  to  retaliate.  "Let's  appoint  a  com 
mittee  to  wait  on  Anderson  and  find  out  what  he 
thinks  we'd  better  do." 

"But  Anderson  ain't — "  began  some  one.  Blootch 
calmly  waived  him  into  silence. 

"What  he  wants  is  encouragement,  and  not  a  lot  of 
soup  and  broth  and  lemonade.  He  ain't  sick.  He's 
as  able-bodied  as  I  am.  Every  woman  in  town  took 
soup  to  him  this  noon.  He  needs  a  good  stiff  drink 
of  whiskey  and  a  committee  to  cheer  him  up.  I  took 
a  bottle  up  to  'Rast  Little  last  night  and  he  acted  like 
another  man." 

At  last  it  was  decided  that  a  committee  should  first 
wait  on  Anderson,  ascertaining  his  wishes  in  the  prem 
ises,  and  then  proceed  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  the 
mystery.  In  forming  this  committee  the  wise  men 
of  the  town  ignored  Mr.  Peabody,  and  he  might  have 
been  left  off  completely  had  he  not  stepped  in  and 
appointed  himself  chairman. 

The  five  good  men  and  true  descended  upon  the 
marshal  late  in  the  afternoon,  half  fearful  of  the 
result,  but  resolute.  They  found  him  slowly  emerg 
ing  from  his  spell  of  lassitude.  He  greeted  them  with 
a  solemn  nod  of  the  head.  Since  early  morning  he 
had  been  conscious  of  a  long  stream  of  sympathisers 
passing  through  the  house,  but  it  was  not  until  now 


Rosalie  Disappears  137 

that  he  felt  equal  to  the  task  of  recognising  any  of 
them. 

His  son  Roscoe  had  just  finished  telling  him  the 
story  of  the  abduction.  Roscoe's  awestruck  tones  and 
reddened  eyes  carried  great  weight  with  them,  and 
for  the  tenth  time  that  day  he  had  his  sisters  in  tears. 
With  each  succeeding  repetition  the  details  grew  until 
at  last  there  was  but  little  of  the  original  event  re 
maining,  a  fact  which  his  own  family  properly  over 
looked. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Anderson,  as  if  suddenly  coming 
from  a  trance,  "this  wasn't  the  work  of  Tinkletown 
desperadoes."  Whereupon  the  committee  felt  might 
ily  relieved.  The  marshal  displayed  signs  of  a  re 
turning  energy  that  augured  well  for  the  enterprise. 
After  the  chairman  had  impressively  announced  that 
something  must  be  done,  and  that  he  was  willing  to 
lead  his  little  band  to  death's  door — and  beyond,  if 
necessary — Mr.  Crow  pathetically  upset  all  their 
hopes  by  saying  that  he  had  long  been  expecting  such 
a  calamity,  and  that  nothing  could  be  done. 

"They  took  the  very  night  when  I  was  not  here  to 
pertect  her,"  he  lamented.  "It  shows  that  they 
been  a-watchin'  me  all  along.  The  job  was  did  by 
persons  who  was  in  the  employ  of  her  family,  an'  she 
has  been  carried  off  secretly  to  keep  me  from  findin' 
out  who  and  what  her  parents  were.  Don't  ye  see? 
Her  mother — er  father,  fer  that  matter — couldn't 
afford  to  come  right  out  plain  an'  say  they  wanted 
their  child  after  all  these  years.  The  only  way  was 
to  take  her  away  without  givin'  themselves  away.  It's 


138        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

been  the  plan  all  along.  There  ain't  no  use  huntin' 
fer  her,  gentlemen.  She's  in  New  York  by  this  time, 
an'  maybe  she's  ready  fer  a  trip  to  Europe." 

"But  I  should  think  she'd  telegraph  to  you,"  said 
Blootch. 

"Telegraph  yer  granny!  Do  you  s'pose  they'd  'a' 
stole  her  if  they  intended  to  let  her  telegraph  to  any 
body?  Not  much.  They're  spiritin'  her  away  until 
her  estate's  settled.  After  a  while  it  will  all  come 
out,  an'  you'll  see  if  I  ain't  right.  But  she's  gone. 
They've  got  her  away  from  me  an' — an'  we  got  to 
stand  it,  that's  all.  I — I — cain't  bear  to  think  about 
it.  It's  broke  my  heart  mighty  ne — near.  Don't 
mind  me  if — I — cry,  boys.  You  would,  too,  if  you 
was  me." 

As  the  committee  departed  soon  after  without  any 
plan  of  action  arising  from  the  interview  with  the 
dejected  marshal,  it  may  be  well  to  acquaint  the 
reader  with  the  history  of  the  abduction,  as  told  by 
Roscoe  Crow  and  his  bosom  friend,  Bud  Long,  thor 
oughly  expurgated. 

According  to  instructions,  no  one  in  the  Crow  fam 
ily  mentioned  the  strange  disappearance  of  Elsie 
Banks  to  Rosalie.  Nor  was  she  told  of  the  pursuit  by 
the  marshal  and  his  posse.  The  girl,  far  from  being 
afflicted  with  a  fever,  really  now  kept  in  her  room  by 
grief  over  the  departure  of  her  friend  and  companion. 
She  was  in  tears  all  that  night  and  the  next  day, 
suffering  intensely  in  her  loss.  Rosalie  did  not  know 
that  the  teacher  was  to  leave  Tinkletown  surrep 
titiously  until  after  the  spelling-bee.  The  sly,  blush- 


Rosalie  Disappears  139 

ing  announcement  came  as  a  shock,  but  she  was  loyal 
to  her  friend,  and  not  a  word  in  exposure  escaped 
from  her  lips.  Of  course,  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
sensational  developments  that  followed  the  uncalled- 
for  flight  of  Elsie  Banks. 

Shortly  after  the  supper  dishes  had  been  cleared 
away  Rosalie  came  downstairs  and  announced  that  she 
was  going  over  to  read  to  old  Mrs.  Luce,  who  was 
bedridden.  Her  guardian's  absence  was  not  explained 
to  her,  and  she  did  not  in  the  least  suspect  that  he 
had  been  away  all  day  on  a  fool's  errand.  Roscoe 
and  Bud  accompanied  her  to  Mrs.  Luce's  front  door, 
heavily  bound  by  promises  to  hold  their  tongues  re 
garding  Miss  Banks. 


"We  left  her  there  at  old  Mis'  Luce's,"  related 
Roscoe,  "an'  then  went  over  to  Robertson's  Pond  to 
skate.  She  tole  us  to  stop  in  fer  her  about  nine 


140        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

o'clock,  didn't  she,  Bud?  Er  was  it  eight?"  He  saw 
the  necessity  for  accuracy. 

"Ten,"  corrected  Bud  deliberately. 

"Well,  pop,  we  stopped  fer  her,  an' — an' " 

"Stop  yer  blubberin',  Roscoe,"  commanded  Ander 
son  as  harshly  as  he  could. 

"An'  got  her,"  concluded  Roscoe.  "She  put  on  her 
shawl  an'  mittens  an'  said  she'd  run  us  a  race  all  the 
way  home.  We  all  got  ready  to  start  right  in  front 
of  old  Mis'  Luce's  gate.  Bud  he  stopped  an'  said, 
'Here  comes  Tony  Brink.'  We  all  looked  around, 
an'  sure  enough,  a  heavy-set  feller  was  comin'  to'rds 
us.  It  looked  like  Tony,  but  when  he  got  up  to  us 
I  see  it  wasn't  him.  He  ast  us  if  we  could  tell  him 
where  Mr.  Crow  lived " 

"He  must  'a'  been  a  stranger,"  deduced  Anderson 
mechanically. 

" — an'  Bud  said  you  lived  right  on  ahead  where  the 
street  lamps  was.  Jest  then  a  big  sleigh  turned  out  of 
the  lane  back  of  Mis'  Luce's  an'  drove  up  to  where 
we  was  standin'.  Bud  was  standin'  jest  like  this — 
me  here  an'  Rosalie  a  little  off  to  one  side.  S'posin' 
this  chair  was  her  an' " 

"Yes — yes,  go  on,"  from  Anderson. 

"The  sleigh  stopped,  and  there  was  two  fellers  in 
it.  There  was  two  seats,  too." 

"Front  and  back?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  understand.  It  was  a  double-seated  one,"  again 
deduced  the  marshal. 

"An'  nen,  by  gum,  'fore  we  could  say  Jack  Robin- 


Rosalie  Disappears  141 

son,  one  of  the  fellers  jumped  out  an'  grabbed  Rosalie. 
The  feller  on  the  groun',  he  up  an'  hit  me  a  clip  in 
the  ear.  I  fell  down,  an'  so  did  Bud " 

"He  hit  me  on  top  of  the  head,"  corrected  Bud 
sourly. 

"I  heerd  Rosalie  start  to  scream,  but  the  next  min 
ute  they  had  a  blanket  over  her  head  an'  she  was 
chucked  into  the  back  seat.  It  was  all  over  in  a  sec 
ond.  I  got  up,  but  'fore  I  could  run  a  feller  yelled, 
'Ketch  him!'  An'  another  feller  did.  'Don't  let  'em 
get  away,'  said  the  driver  in  low,  hissin'  tones " 

"Regular  villains,"  vowed  Anderson. 

"Yes,  sir.  'Don't  let  'em  git  away  er  they'll  rouse 
the  town.'  'What'll  we  do  with  'em?'  asked  the  feller 
who  held  both  of  us.  'Kill  'em?'  Gosh,  I  was 
skeered.  Neither  one  of  us  could  yell,  'cause  he  had 
us  by  the  neck,  an'  he  was  powerful  strong.  'Chuck 
'em  in  here  an'  I'll  tend  to  'em,'  said  the  driver.  Next 
thing  we  knowed  we  was  in  the  front  of  the  sleigh, 
an'  the  whole  outfit  was  off  like  a  runaway.  They 
said  they'd  kill  us  if  we  made  a  noise,  an'  we  didn't. 
I  wish  I'd  'a'  had  my  rifle,  doggone  it !  I'd  'a'  showed 
'em." 

"They  drove  like  thunder  out  to'rds  Boggs  City  fer 
about  two  mile,"  said  Bud,  who  had  been  silent  as 
long  as  human  nature  would  permit.  "  'Nen  they 
stopped  an'  throwed  us  out  in  the  road.  'Go  home, 
you  devils,  an'  don't  you  tell  anybody  about  us  er  I'll 
come  back  here  some  day  an'  give  you  a  kick  in  the 
slats.'  " 

"Slats?"  murmured  Anderson. 


142        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"That's  short  fer  ribs,"  explained  Bud  loftily. 

"Well,  why  couldn't  he  have  said  short  ribs  an' 
been  done  with  it?"  complained  An'derson. 

"Then  they  whipped  up  an'  turned  off  west  in  the 
pike,"  resumed  Bud.  "We  run  all  the  way  home  an' 
tole  Mr.  Lamson,  an'  he " 

"Where  was  Rosalie  all  this  time?"  asked  Ander 
son. 

"Layin'  in  the  back  seat  covered  with  a  blanket,  jest 
the  same  as  if  she  was  dead.  I  heerd  'em  say  some- 
thin'  about  chloroformin'  her.  What  does  chloro 
form  smell  like,  Mr.  Crow?" 

"Jest  like  any  medicine.  It  has  drugs  in  it.  They 
use  it  to  pull  teeth.  Well,  what  then?" 

"Well,"  interposed  Roscoe,  "Mr.  Lamson  gave  the 
alarm,  an'  nearly  ever'body  in  town  got  out  o'  bed. 
They  telegraphed  to  Boggs  City  an'  all  around,  but 
it  didn't  seem  to  do  no  good.  Them  horses  went 
faster'n  telegraphs." 

"Did  you  ever  see  them  fellers  before?" 

"No,  sir;  but  I  think  I'd  know  'em  with  their  masks 
off." 

"Was  they  masked?" 

"Their  faces  were." 

"Oh,  my  poor  little  Rosalie!"  sobbed  old  Anderson 
hopelessly. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

The  Haunted  House 

DAYS  passed  without  word  or  sign  from  the  missing 
girl.  The  marshal  haunted  the  post-office  and  the  rail 
road  station,  hoping  with  all  his  poor  old  heart  that 
word  would  come  from  her;  but  the  letter  was  not 
there,  nor  was  there  a  telegram  at  the  station  when 
he  strolled  over  to  that  place.  The  county  officials 
at  Boggs  City  came  down  and  began  a  cursory  investi 
gation,  but  Anderson's  emphatic  though  doleful  opin 
ions  set  them  quite  straight,  and  they  gave  up  the 
quest.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  back  and 
wait. 

In  those  three  days  Anderson  Crow  turned  greyer 
and  older,  although  he  maintained  a  splendid  show 
of  resignation.  He  had  made  a  perfunctory  offer  of  re 
ward  for  Rosalie,  dead  or  alive,  but  he  knew  all  the 
time  that  it  would  be  fruitless.  Mark  Riley,  the  bill 
poster,  stuck  up  the  glaring  reward  notices  as  far 
away  as  the  telegraph  poles  in  Clay  County.  The 
world  was  given  to  understand  that  $1000  reward 
would  be  paid  for  Rosalie's  return  or  for  informa 
tion  leading  to  the  apprehension  and  capture  of  her 
abductors. 

There  was  one  very  mysterious  point  in  connection 
with  the  affair — something  so  strange  that  it  bordered 
on  the  supernatural.  No  human  being  in  Bramble 


1 44        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

County  except  the  two  boys  had  seen  the  double-seated 
sleigh.  It  had  disappeared  as  if  swallowed  by  the 
earth  itself. 

"Well,  it  don't  do  any  good  to  cry  over  spilt  milk," 
said  Anderson  bravely.  "She's  gone,  an'  I  only  hope 
she  ain't  bein'  mistreated.  I  don't  see  why  they 
should  harm  her.  She's  never  done  nobody  a  wrong. 
Like  as  not  she's  been  taken  to  a  comfortable  place 
in  New  York,  an'  we'll  hear  from  her  as  soon  as  she 
recovers  from  the  shock.  There  ain't  no  use  huntin' 
fer  her,  I  know,  but  I  jest  can't  help  nosin'  around 
a  little.  Mebby  I  can  git  some  track  of  her.  I'd  give 
all  I  got  in  this  world  to  know  that  she's  safe  an' 
sound,  no  matter  if  I  never  see  her  ag'in." 

The  hungry  look  in  his  eyes  deepened,  and  no  one 
bandied  jests  with  him  as  was  the  custom  in  days 

gone  by. 

*  #  *  *  * 

There  were  not  many  tramps  practising  in  that  sec 
tion  of  the  State.  Anderson  Crow  proudly  announced 
that  they  gave  Tinkletown  a  wide  berth  because  of 
his  prowess ;  but  the  vagabond  gentry  took  an  entirely 
different  view  of  the  question.  They  did  not  infest 
the  upper  part  of  the  State  for  the  simple  but  eloquent 
reason  that  it  meant  starvation  to  them.  The  farmers 
compelled  the  weary  wayfarer  to  work  all  day  like  a 
borrowed  horse  for  a  single  meal  at  the  "second 
table."  There  was  no  such  thing  as  a  "hand-out," 
as  it  is  known  in  the  tramp's  vocabulary.  It  is  not 
extraordinary,  therefore,  that  tramps  found  the  com 
munity  so  unattractive  that  they  cheerfully  walked 


The  Haunted  House  145 

miles  to  avoid  it.  A  peculiarly  well-informed  vagrant 
once  characterised  the  up-State  farmer  as  being  so 
"close  that  he  never  shaved  because  it  was  a  waste  of 
hair." 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  state,  in  view  of  the  attitude 
of  both  farmer  and  tramp,  that  the  misguided  vagrant 
who  wandered  that  way  was  the  object  of  distinct,  if 
not  distinguished,  curiosity.  In  the  country  roads 
he  was  stared  at  with  a  malevolence  that  chilled  his 
appetite,  no  matter  how  long  he  had  been  cultivating 
it  on  barren  soil.  In  the  streets  of  Tinkletown,  and 
even  at  the  county  seat,  he  was  an  object  of  such 
amazing  concern  that  he  slunk  away  in  pure  distress. 
It  was  indeed  an  unsophisticated  tramp  who  thought 
to  thrive  in  Bramble  County  even  for  a  day  and  a 
night.  In  front  of  the  general  store  and  post-office 
at  Tinkletown  there  was  a  sign-post,  on  which  Ander 
son  Crow  had  painted  these  words: 

"No  tramps  or  Live  Stock  Allowed  on  these  Streets. 
"By  order  of 

"A.  CROW,  Marshal." 

The  live  stock  disregarded  the  command,  but  the 
tramp  took  warning.  On  rare  occasions  he  may  have 
gone  through  some  of  the  houses  in  Tinkletown,  but 
if  he  went  through  the  streets  no  one  was  the  wiser. 
Anderson  Crow  solemnly  but  studiously  headed  him 
off  in  the  outskirts,  and  he  took  another  direction. 
Twice  in  his  career  he  drove  out  tramps  who  had 
burglarised  the  houses  of  prominent  citizens  in  broad 
daylight,  but  what  did  it  matter  so  long  as  the 


146        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"hoboes"  were  kept  from  desecrating  the  main  street 
of  the  town?  Mr.  Crow's  official  star,  together  with 
his  badge  from  the  New  York  detective  agency,  his 
Sons  of  the  Revolution  pin,  and  his  G.  A.  R.  insignia, 
made  him  a  person  to  be  feared.  If  the  weather 
became  too  hot  for  coat  and  vest  the  proud  dignitary 
fastened  the  badges  to  his  suspenders,  and  their  pres 
ence  glorified  the  otherwise  humble  "galluses." 

On  the  fourth  day  after  the  abduction  Marshal 
Crow  was  suddenly  aroused  from  his  lethargy  by  the 
news  that  the  peace  and  security  of  the  neighbourhood 
was  being  imposed  upon. 

"The  dickens  you  say!"  he  observed,  abandoning 
the  perpetual  grip  upon  his  straggling  chin  whiskers. 

"Yes,  sir,"  responded  the  excited  small  boy,  who, 
with  two  companions,  had  run  himself  quite  out  of 
breath  all  over  town  before  he  found  the  officer  at 
Harkin's  blacksmith  shop. 

"Well,  dang  'em!"  said  Mr.  Crow  impressively. 

"We  was  skatin'  in  the  marsh  when  we  heerd  'em 
plain  as  day,"  said  the  other  boy.  "You  bet  I'm 
nuvver  goin'  nigh  that  house  ag'in." 

"Sho!  Bud,  they  ain't  no  sech  thing  as  ghosts,"  said 
Mr.  Crow;  "it's  tramps." 

"You  know  that  house  is  ha'nted,"  protested  Bud. 
"Wasn't  ole  Mrs.  Rank  slew  there  by  her  son-in-law? 
Wasn't  she  chopped  to  pieces  and  buried  there  right  in 
her  own  cellar?" 

"Thunderation,  boy,  that  was  thirty  year  ago !" 

"Well,  nobody's  lived  in  the  ha'nted  house  sence 
then,  has  they?  Didn't  Jim  Smith  try  to  sleep  there 


THE     HAUNTED     HOUSE 


The  Haunted  House  147 

oncet  on  a  bet,  an'  didn't  he  hear  sech  awful  noises 
'at  he  liked  to  went  crazy?"  insisted  Bud. 

"I  do  recollect  that  Jim  run  two  mile  past  his  own 
house  before  he  could  stop,  he  was  in  sech  a  hurry  to 
git  away  from  the  place.  But  Jim  didn't  see  any 
thing.  Besides,  that  was  twenty  year  ago.  Ghosts 
don't  hang  aroun'  a  place  when  there  ain't  nothin'  to 
ha'nt.  Her  son-in-law  was  hung,  an'  she  ain't  got  no 
one  else  to  pester.  I  tell  you  it's  tramps." 

"Well,  we  just  thought  we'd  tell  you,  Mr.  Crow," 
said  the  first  boy. 

In  a  few  minutes  it  was  known  throughout  the  busi 
ness  centre  of  Tinkletown  that  tramps  were  making 
their  home  in  the  haunted  house  down  the  river,  and 
that  Anderson  Crow  was  to  ride  forth  on  his  bicycle 
to  rout  them  out.  The  haunted  house  was  three  miles 
from  town  and  in  the  most  desolate  section  of  the 
bottomland.  It  was  approachable  only  through  the 
treacherous  swamp  on  one  side  or  by  means  of  the 
river  on  the  other.  Not  until  after  the  murder  of  its 
owner  and  builder,  old  Johanna  Rank,  was  there  an 
explanation  offered  for  the  existence  of  a  home  in  such 
an  unwholesome  locality. 

Federal  authorities  discovered  that  she  and  her  son- 
in-law,  Dave  Wolfe,  were  at  the  head  of  a  great 
counterfeiting  gang,  and  that  they  had  been  working 
up  there  in  security  for  years,  turning  out  spurious 
coins  by  the  hundred.  One  night  Dave  up  and  killed 
his  mother-in-law,  and  was  hanged  for  his  good  deed 
before  he  could  be  punished  for  his  bad  ones.  For 
thirty  years  the  weather-beaten,  ramshackle  old  cabin 


148        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Cro*w 

in  the  swamp  had  been  unoccupied  except  by  birds, 
lizards,  and  other  denizens  of  the  solitude — always, 
of  course,  including  the  ghost  of  old  Mrs.  Rank. 

Inasmuch  as  Dave  chopped  her  into  small  bits  and 
buried  them  in  the  cellar,  while  her  own  daughter 
held  the  lantern,  it  was  not  beyond  the  range  of  possi 
bility  that  certain  atoms  of  the  unlamented  Johanna 
were  never  unearthed  by  the  searchers.  It  was  gen 
erally  believed  in  the  community  that  Mrs.  Rank's 
spirit  came  back  every  little  while  to  nose  around  in 
the  dirt  of  the  cellar  in  quest  of  such  portions  of  her 
person  as  had  not  been  respectably  interred  in  the 
village  graveyard. 

Mysterious  noises  had  been  heard  about  the  place  at 
the  dead  hour  of  night,  and  ghostly  lights  had  flitted 
past  the  cellar  windows.  All  Tinkletown  agreed  that 
the  place  was  haunted  and  kept  at  a  most  respectful 
distance.  The  three  small  boys  who  startled  Marshal 
Crow  from  his  moping  had  gone  down  the  river  to 
skate  instead  of  going  to  school.  They  swore  that 
the  sound  of  muffled  voices  came  from  the  interior 
of  the  cabin,  near  which  they  had  inadvertently  wan- 


The  Haunted  House 


149 


dered.  Although  Dave  Wolfe  had  been  dead  thirty 
years,  one  of  the  youngest  of  the  lads  was  positive 
that  he  recognised  the  voice  of  the  desperado.  And 
at  once  the  trio  fled  the  'cursed  spot  and  brought  the 
horrifying  news  to  Anderson  Crow.  The  detective 
was  immediately  called  upon  to  solve  the  ghostly 
mystery. 


150        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Marshal  Crow  first  went  to  his  home  and  donned 
his  blue  coat,  transferring  the  stars  and  badges  to  the 
greasy  lapel  of  the  garment.  He  also  secured  his  dark 
lantern  and  the  official  cane  of  the  village,  but  why  he 
should  carry  a  cane  on  a  bicycle  expedition  was  known 
only  to  himself.  Followed  by  a  horde  of  small  boys 
and  a  few  representative  citizens  of  Tinkletown  on 
antiquated  wheels,  Mr.  Crow  pedalled  majestically 
off  to  the  south.  Skirting  the  swamp,  the  party  ap 
proached  the  haunted  house  over  the  narrow  path 
which  ran  along  the  river  bank.  Once  in  sight  of  the 
dilapidated  cabin,  which  seemed  to  slink  farther  and 
farther  back  into  the  dense  shadows  of  the  late  after 
noon,  with  all  the  diffidence  of  the  supernatural,  the 
marshal  called  a  halt  and  announced  his  plans. 

"You  kids  go  up  an'  tell  them  fellers  I  want  to  see 
'em,"  he  commanded.  The  boys  fell  back  and  pre 
pared  to  whimper. 

"I  don't  want  to,"  protested  Bud. 

"Why  don't  you  go  an'  tell  'em  yourself,  Ander 
son?"  demanded  Isaac  Porter,  the  pump  repairer. 

"Thunderation,  Ike,  who's  runnin'  this  thing?"  re 
torted  Anderson  Crow.  "I  got  a  right  to  deputise 
anybody  to  do  anything  at  any  time.  Don't  you  s'pose 
I  know  how  to  handle  a  job  like  this?  I  got  my  own 
idees  how  to  waylay  them  raskils,  an'  I  reckon  I  been 
in  the  detectin'  business  long  enough  to  know  how 
to  manage  a  gol-derned  tramp,  ain't  I ?  How's  that? 
Who  says  I  ain't?" 

"Nobody  said  a  word,  Anderson,"  meekly  observed 
Jim  Borum. 


The  Haunted  House  151 

"Well,  I  thought  somebody  did.  An'  I  don't  want 
nobody  interferin'  with  an  officer,  either.  Bud,  you 
an'  them  two  Heffner  boys  go  up  an'  tell  them  loafers 
to  step  down  here  right  spry  er  I'll  come  up  there  an' 
see  about  it." 

"Gosh,  Mr.  Crow,  I'm  a-skeered  to!"  whimpered 
Bud.  The  Heffner  boys  started  for  home  on  a  dead 
run. 

"Askeered  to  ?"  sniffed  Anderson.  "An'  your  great- 
grand-dad  was  in  the  Revolution,  too.  Geminy  crick 
ets,  ef  you  was  my  boy  I'd  give  you  somethin'  to  be 
askeered  of!  Now,  Bud,  nothin'  kin  happen  to  you. 
Ain't  I  here?" 

"But  suppose  they  won't  come  when  I  tell  'em?" 

"Yes,  'n'  supposin'  'tain't  tramps,  but  ghosts?"  vol 
unteered  Mr.  Porter,  edging  away  with  his  bicycle. 
It  was  now  quite  dark  and  menacing  in  there  where 
the  cabin  stood.  As  the  outcome  of  half  an  hour's 
discussion,  the  whole  party  advanced  slowly  upon  the 
house,  Anderson  Crow  in  the  lead,  his  dark  lantern 
in  one  hand,  his  cane  in  the  other.  Half  way  to  the 
house  he  stopped  short  and  turned  to  Bud. 

"Gosh  dern  you,  Bud !  I  don't  believe  you  heerd 
any  noise  in  there  at  all !  There  ain't  no  use  goin' 
any  further  with  this,  gentlemen.  The  dern  boys  was 
lyin'.  We  might  jest  as  well  go  home."  And  he 
would  have  started  for  home  had  not  Isaac  Porter 
uttered  a  fearful  groan  and  staggered  back  against  a 
swamp  reed  for  support,  his  horrified  eyes  glued  upon 
a  window  in  the  log  house.  The  reed  was  inadequate* 
and  Isaac  tumbled  over  backward. 


152        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

For  a  full  minute  the  company  stared  dumbly  at  the 
indistinct  little  window,  paralysis  attacking  every  sense 
but  that  of  sight.  At  the  expiration  of  another  min 
ute  the  place  was  deserted,  and  Anderson  Crow  was 
the  first  to  reach  the  bicycles  far  up  the  river  bank. 
Every  face,  was  as  white  as  chalk,  and  every  voice 
trembled.  Mr.  Crow's  dignity  asserted  itself  just  as 
the  valiant  posse  prepared  to  "straddle"  the  wheels 
in  mad  flight. 

"Hold  on!"  he  panted.  "I  lost  my  dark  lantern 
down  there.  Go  back  an'  git  it,  Bud." 

"Land  o'  mighty !  Did  y'ever  see  anythin'  like  it?" 
gasped  Jim  Borum,  trying  to  mount  a  ten-year-old 
boy's  wheel  instead  of  his  own. 

"I'd  like  to  have  anybody  tell  me  there  ain't  no  sech 
things  as  ghosts,"  faltered  Uncle  Jimmy  Borton,  who 
had  always  said  there  wasn't.  "Let  go,  there ! 
Ouch !"  The  command  and  subsequent  exclamation 
were  the  inevitable  results  of  his  unsuccessful  attempt 
to  mount  with  Elon  Jones  the  same  wheel. 

"What  'd  I  tell  you,  Anderson?"  exclaimed  Isaac 
Porter.  "Didn't  I  say  it  was  ghosts?  Tramps 
nothin' !  A  tramp  wouldn't  last  a  second  up  in  that 
house.  It's  been  ha'nted  fer  thirty  years  an'  it  gits 
worse  all  the  time.  What  air  we  goin'  to  do  next?" 

Even  the  valiant  Mr.  Crow  approved  of  an  immedi 
ate  return  to  Tinkletown,  and  the  posse  was  trying 
to  disentangle  its  collection  of  bicycles  when  an  inter 
ruption  came  from  an  unsuspected  quarter — a  deep, 
masculine  voice  arose  from  the  ice-covered  river  hard 
by,  almost  directly  below  that  section  of  the  bank  on 


The  Haunted  House  153 

which  Anderson  and  his  friends  were  herded.  The 
result  was  startling.  Every  man  leaped  a  foot  in  the 
air  and  every  hair  stood  on  end;  bicycles  rattled  and 
clashed  together,  and  Ed  Higgins,  hopelessly  be 
wildered,  started  to  run  in  the  direction  of  the 
haunted  house. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Wicker  Banner,  Harvard 

"HELLO,  up  there!"  was  what  the  deep,  masculine 
voice  shouted  from  the  river.  Anderson  Crow  was 
the  first  to  distinguish  the  form  of  the  speaker,  and 
he  was  not  long  in  deciding  that  it  was  far  from  ghost 
like.  With  a  word  of  command  he  brought  his  dis 
organised  forces  out  of  chaos  and  huddled  them  to 
gether  as  if  to  resist  attack. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  demanded, 
addressing  his  men  in  a  loud  tone.  "Don't  get 
rattled!" 

"Are  you  speaking  to  me?"  called  the  fresh  voice 
from  below. 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  Mr.  Crow  in  return. 

"Nobody  in  particular.  What's  going  on  up  there? 
What's  the  fuss?" 

"Come  up  an'  find  out."  Then  Mr.  Crow,  observ 
ing  that  the  man  below  was  preparing  to  comply, 
turned  and  addressed  his  squad  in  low,  earnest  tones. 
"This  feller  will  bear  watchin'.  He's  mixed  up  in 
this  thing  somehow.  Else  why  is  he  wanderin'  around 
here  close  to  the  house?  I'll  question  him." 

"By  gosh,  he  ain't  no  ghost!"  murmured  Ed  Hig- 
gins,  eyeing  the  newcomer  as  he  crawled  up  the  bank. 
"Say,  did  y'  see  me  a  minute  ago?  If  you  fellers 
had  come  on,  I  was  goin'  right  up.  to  search  that 


Wicker  Bonner,  Harvard  I  5  5 

house  from  top  to  bottom.  Was  you  all  askeered  to 
come?" 

"Aw,  you !"  said  Anderson  Crow  in  deep  scorn. 

The  next  instant  a  stalwart  young  fellow  stood  be 
fore  the  marshal,  who  was  eyeing  him  keenly,  even 
imperiously.  The  newcomer's  good-looking,  strong- 
featured  face  was  lighted  up  by  a  smile  of  surpassing 
friendliness. 

"It's  lonesome  as  thunder  down  here,  isn't  it?  Glad 
to  see  you,  gentlemen.  What's  up — a  bicycle  race?" 

"No,  sir;  we  got  a  little  business  up  here,  that's  all," 
responded  Anderson  Crow  diplomatically.  "What 
air  you  doin'  here?" 

"Skating.  My  name  is  Wicker  Bonner,  and  I'm 
visiting  my  uncle,  Congressman  Bonner,  across  the 
river.  You  know  him,  I  dare  say.  I've  been  hanging 
around  here  for  a  week's  hunting,  and  haven't  had  an 
ounce  of  luck  in  all  that  time.  It's  rotten !  Aha,  I 
see  that  you  are  an  officer,  sir — a  detective,  too.  By 
George,  can  it  be  possible  that  you  are  searching  for 
some  one?  If  you  are,  let  me  in  on  it.  I'm  dying 
for  excitement." 

The  young  man's  face  was  eager  and  his  voice  rang 
true.  Besides,  he  was  a  tall,  athletic  chap,  with 
brawny  arms  and  a  broad  back.  Altogether,  he  would 
make  a  splendid  recruit,  thought  Anderson  Crow. 
He  was  dressed  in  rough  corduroy  knickerbockers, 
the  thick  coat  buttoned  up  close  to  his  muffled  neck. 
A  woollen  cap  came  down  over  his  ears  and  a  pair  of 
skates  dangled  from  his  arm. 

"Yes,  sir;  I'm  a  detective,  and  we  are  up  here  doin' 


156        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

a  little  investigatin'.  You  are  from  Chicago,  I 
see." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"Can't  fool  me.  I  c'n  always  tell.  You  said,  'I've 
bean  hangin','  instead  of  'I've  ben  hanginV  See? 
They  say  bean  in  Chicago.  Ha!  ha!  You  didn't 
think  I  could  deduce  that,  did  you?" 

"I'll  confess  that  I  didn't,"  said  Mr.  Bonner  with  a 
dry  smile.  "I'm  from  Boston,  however." 

"Sure,"  interposed  Isaac  Porter;  "that's  where  the 
beans  come  from,  Anderson." 

"Well,  that's  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Mr. 
Crow,  hastily  changing  the  subject.  "We're  wastin' 
time." 

"Stayin'  here,  you  mean?"  asked  Ed  Higgins,  quitQ 
ready  to  start.  Involuntarily  the  eyes  of  the  posse 
turned  toward  the  house  among  the  willows.  The 
stranger  saw  the  concerted  glance  and  made  inquiry. 
Whereupon  Mr.  Crow,  assisted  by  seven  men  and 
five  small  boys,  told  Mr.  Wicker  Bonner,  late  of  Har 
vard,  what  had  brought  them  from  Tinkletown  to  the 
haunted  house,  and  what  they  had  seen  upon  their 
arrival.  Young  Bonner's  face  glowed  with  the  joy  of 
excitement. 

"Great!"  he  cried,  fastening  his  happy  eyes  upon 
the  hated  thing  among  the  trees.  "Let's  search  the 
place.  By  George,  this  is  glorious !" 

"Not  on  your  life!"  said  Ed  Higgins.  "You  can't 
get  me  inside  that  house.  Like  as  not  a  feller'd  never 
come  out  alive." 

"Well,  better  men  than  we  have  died,"  said  Mr. 


WICKER    BONNER 


Wicker  Banner,  Harvard  157 

Bonner  tranquilly.  "Come  on;  I'll  go  in  first.  It's 
all  tommy-rot  about  the  place  being  haunted.  In  any 
event,  ghosts  don't  monkey  around  at  this  time  of  day. 
It's  hardly  dusk." 

"But,  gosh  dern  it,"  exploded  Anderson  Crow,  "we 
seen  it!" 

"I  seen  it  first,"  said  Isaac  Porter  proudly. 

"But  I  heerd  it  first,"  peeped  up  Master  Bud. 

"You've  all  been  drinking  hard  cider  or  pop  or  some 
thing  like  that,"  said  the  brawny  scoffer. 

"Now,  see  here,  you're  gittin'  fresh,  an — "  began 
the  marshal,  swelling  up  like  a  pigeon. 

"Look  out  behind!"  sang  out  Mr.  Bonner,  and 
Anderson  jumped  almost  out  of  his  shoes,  besides  rip 
ping  his  shirt  in  the  back,  he  turned  so  suddenly. 

"Jeemses  River!"  he  gasped. 

"Never  turn  your  back  on  an  unknown  danger," 
cautioned  the  young  man  serenely.  "Be  ready  to  meet 
it." 

"If  you're  turned  t'other  way  you  c'n  git  a  quicker 
start  if  you  want  to  run,"  suggested  Jim  Borum, 
bracing  himself  with  a  fresh  chew  of  tobacco. 

"What  time  is  it?"  asked  Wicker  Bonner. 

Anderson  Crow  squinted  up  through  the  leafless  tree- 
tops  toward  the  setting  sun;  then  he  looked  at  the 
shadow  of  a  sapling  down  on  the  bank. 

"It's  about  seven  minutes  past  five — in  the  evenin'," 
he  said  conclusively.  Bonner  was  impolite  enough  to 
pull  out  his  watch  for  verification. 

"You're  a  minute  fast,"  he  observed;  but  he  looked 
at  Anderson  with  a  new  and  respectful  admiration. 


158        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"He  c'n  detect  anything  under  the  sun,"  said  Porter 
with  a  feeble  laugh  at  his  own  joke. 

"Well,  let's  go  up  and  ransack  that  old  cabin,"  an 
nounced  Bonner,  starting  toward  the  willows.  The. 
crowd  held  back.  "I'll  go  alone  if  you're  afraid  to 
come,"  he  went  on.  "It's  my  firm  belief  that  you 
didn't  see  anything  and  the  noise  you  boys  heard  was 
the  wind  whistling  through  the  trees.  Now,  tell  the 
truth,  how  many  of  you  saw  it?" 

"I  did,"  came  from  every  throat  so  unanimously  that 
Jim  Borum's  supplemental  oath  stood  out  alone  and 
forceful  as  a  climax. 

"Then  it's  worth  investigating,"  announced  the 
Boston  man.  "It  is  certainly  a  very  mysterious  affair, 
and  you,  at  least,  Mr.  Town  Marshal,  should  back  me 
up  in  the  effort  to  unravel  it.  Tell  me  again  just  what 
it  was  you  saw  and  what  it  looked  like." 

"I  won't  let  no  man  tell  me  what  my  duties  are," 
snorted  Anderson,  his  stars  trembling  with  injured 
pride.  "Of  course  I'm  going  to  solve  the  mystery. 
We've  got  to  see  what's  inside  that  house.  I  thought 
it  was  tramps  at  first." 

"Well,  lead  on,  then;  I'll  follow!"  said  Bonner  with 
a  grin. 

"I  thought  you  was  so  anxious  to  go  first !"  exclaimed 
Anderson  with  fine  tact.  "Go  ahead  yourself,  ef 
you're  so  derned  brave.  I  dare  you  to." 

Bonner  laughed  loud  enough  to  awaken  every  ghost 
in  Bramble  County  and  then  strode  rapidly  toward  the 
house.  Anderson  Crow  followed  slowly  and  the  rest 
straggled  after,  all  alert  for  the  first  sign  of  resistance. 


Wicker  Bonner,  Harvard  159 

"I  wish  I  could  firid  that  derned  lantern,"  said 
Anderson,  searching  diligently  in  the  deep  grass  as  he 
walked  along,  in  the  meantime  permitting  Bonner  to 
reach  the  grim  old  doorway  far  in  advance  of  him. 

"Come  on!"  called  back  the  intrepid  leader,  seeing 
that  all  save  the  marshal  had  halted.  "You  don't 
need  the  lantern.  It's  still  daylight,  old  chap.  We'll 
find  out  what  it  was  you  all  saw  in  the  window." 

"That's  the  last  of  him,"  muttered  Isaac  Porter,  as 
the  broad  back  disappeared  through  the  low  aper 
ture  that  was  called  a  doorway.  There  were  no 
window  sashes  or  panes  in  the  house,  and  the  door 
had  long  since  rotted  from  the  hinges. 

"He'll  never  come  out.  Let's  go  home,"  added  Ed 
Higgins  conclusively. 

"Are  you  coming?"  sang  out  Bonner  from  the  in 
terior  of  the  house.  His  voice  sounded  prophetically 
sepulchral. 

"Consarn  it,  cain't  you  wait  a  minute?"  replied 
Anderson  Crow,  still  bravely  but  consistently  looking 
for  the  much-needed  dark  lantern. 

"It's  all  right  in  here.  There  hasn't  been  a  human 
being  in  the  house  for  years.  Come  on  in;  it's  fine!" 

Anderson  Crow  finally  ventured  up  to  the  doorway 
and  peeped  in.  Bonner  was  standing  near  the  tumble 
down  fireplace,  placidly  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"This  is  a  fine  job  you've  put  up  on  me,"  he  growled. 
"I  thought  there  would  be  something  doing.  There 
isn't  a  soul  here,  and  there  hasn't  been,  either." 

"Thunderation,  man,  you  cain't  see  ghosts  wrhen 
they  don't  want  you  to!"  said  Anderson  Crow.  "It 


160       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

was  a  ghost,  that's  settled.  I  knowed  it  all  the  time. 
Nothin'  human  ever  looked  like  it,  and  nothin'  alive 
ever  moaned  like  it  did." 

By  this  time  the  rest  of  the  party  had  reached  the 
cabin  door.  The  less  timorous  ventured  inside,  while 
others  contented  themselves  by  looking  through  the 
small  windows. 

"Well,  if  you're  sure  you  really  saw  something,  we'd 
better  make  a  thorough  search  of  the  house  and  the 
grounds,"  said  Bonner,  and  forthwith  began  nosing 
about  the  two  rooms. 

The  floors  were  shaky  and  the  place  had  the  odour 
of  decayed  wood.  Mould  clung  to  the  half-plastered 
walls,  cobwebs  matted  the  ceilings,  and  rotted  fungi 
covered  the  filth  in  the  corners.  Altogether  it  was  a 
most  uninviting  hole,  in  which  no  self-respecting  ghost 
would  have  made  its  home.  When  the  time  came  to 
climb  up  to  the  little  garret  Bonner's  followers  re 
belled.  He  was  compelled  to  go  alone,  carrying  the 
lantern,  which  one  of  the  small  boys  had  found.  This 
part  of  the  house  was  even  more  loathsome  than  be 
low,  and  it  would  be  impossible  to  describe  its  condition. 
He  saw  no  sign  of  life,  and  retired  in  utter  disgust. 
Then  came  the  trip  to  the  cellar.  Again  he  had  no 
followers,  the  Tinkletown  men  emphatically  refusing 
to  go  down  where  old  Mrs.  Rank's  body  had  been 
buried.  Bonner  laughed  at  them  and  went  down 
alone.  It  was  nauseous  with  age  and  the  smell  of 
damp  earth,  but  it  was  cleaner  there  than  above  stairs. 
The  cellar  was  smaller  than  either  of  the  living  rooms, 
and  was  to  be  reached  only  through  the  kitchen. 


Wicker  Bonner,  Harvard  1 6 1 

There  was  no  exit  leading  directly  to  the  exterior  of 
the  house,  but  there  was  one  small  window  at  the 
south  end.  Bonner  examined  the  room  carefully  and 
then  rejoined  the  party.  For  some  reason  the  posse 
had  retired  to  the  open  air  as  soon  as  he  left  them 
to  go  below.  No  one  knew  exactly  why,  but  when 
one  started  to  go  forth  the  others  followed  with  more 
or  less  alacrity. 

"Did  you  see  anything?"  demanded  the  marshal. 

"What  did  old  Mrs.  Rank  look  like  when  she  was 
alive?"  asked  Bonner  with  a  beautifully  mysterious 
air.  No  one  answered;  but  there  was  a  sudden  shift 
ing  of  feet  backward,  while  an  expression  of  alarmed 
inquiry  came  into  every  face.  "Don't  back  into  that 
open  well,"  warned  the  amused  young  man  in  the 
doorway.  Anderson  Crow  looked  sharply  behind, 
and  flushed  indignantly  when  he  saw  that  the  well  was 
at  least  fifty  feet  away.  "I  saw  something  down  there 
that  looked  like  a  woman's  toe,"  went  on  Bonner  very 
soberly. 

"Good  Lord !  What  did  I  tell  you  ?"  cried  the  mar 
shal,  turning  to  his  friends.  To  the  best  of  their 
ability  they  could  not  remember  that  Anderson  had 
told  them  anything,  but  with  one  accord  the  whole 
party  nodded  approval. 

"I  fancy  it  was  the  ghost  of  a  toe,  however,  for  when 
I  tried  to  pick  it  up  it  wriggled  away,  and  I  think  it 
chuckled.  It  disappear — what's  the  matter?  Where 
are  you  going?" 

It  is  only  necessary  to  state  that  the  marshal  and  his 
posse  retreated  in  good  order  to  a  distant  spot  where 


1 62        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

it  was  not  quite  so  dark,  there  to  await  the  approach 
of  Wicker  Bonner,  who  leisurely  but  laughingly  in 
spected  the  exterior  of  the  house  and  the  grounds 
adjoining.  Finding  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary,  ex 
cept  as  to  dilapidation,  he  rejoined  the  party  with 
palpable  displeasure  in  his  face. 

"Well,  I  think  I'll  go  back  to  the  ice,"  he  said;  "that 
place  is  as  quiet  as  the  grave.  You  are  a  fine  lot  of 
jokers,  and  I'll  admit  that  the  laugh  is  on  me." 

But  Bonner  was  mystified,  uncertain.  He  had 
searched  the  house  thoroughly  from  top  to  bottom, 
and  he  had  seen  nothing  unusual,  but  these  men  and 
boys  were  so  positive  that  he  could  not  believe  the 
eyes  of  all  had  been  deceived. 

"This  interests  me,"  he  said  at  last.  "I'll  tell  you 
what  we'll  do,  Mr.  Crow.  You  and  I  will  come  down 
here  to-night,  rig  up  a  tent  of  some  sort  and  divide 
watch  until  morning.  If  there  is  anything  to  be  seen 
we'll  find  out  what  it  is.  I'll  get  a  couple  of  straw 
mattresses  from  our  boathouse  and " 

"I've  got  rheumatiz,  Mr.  Bonner,  an'  it  would  be 
the  death  o'  me  to  sleep  in  this  swamp,"  objected 
Anderson  hastily. 

"Well,  I'll  come  alone,  then.  I'm  not  afraid.  I 
don't  mean  to  say  I'll  sleep  in  that  old  shack,  but  I'll 
bunk  out  here  in  the  woods.  No  human  being  could 
sleep  in  that  place.  Will  any  one  volunteer  to  keep 
me  company?" 

Silence. 

"I  don't  blame  you.  It  does  take  nerve,  I'll  confess. 
My  only  stipulation  is  that  you  shall  come  down  here 


Wicker  Bonner,  Harvard 


163 


from  the  village  early  to-morrow  morning.  I  may 
have  something  of  importance  to  tell  you,  Mr. 
Crow." 

"We'll  find  his  dead  body,"  groaned  old  Mr. 
Borton. 

"Say,  mister,"  piped  up  a  shrill  voice,  "I'll  stay  with 
you."  It  was  Bud  who  spoke,  and  all  Tinkletown 
was  afterward  to  resound  with  stories  of  his  bravery. 
The  boy  had  been  silently  admiring  the  bold  sports 
man  from  Boston  town,  and  he  was  ready  to  cast  his 
lot  with  him  in  this  adventure.  He  thrilled  with 
pleasure  when  the  big  hero  slapped  him  on  the  back 
and  called  him  the  only  man  in  the  crowd. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  night  Bonner  and  the  deter 
mined  but  trembling  Bud  came  up  the  bank  from  the 


164        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

river  and  pitched  a  tent  among  the  trees  near  the 
haunted  house.  From  the  sledge  on  the  river  below 
they  trundled  up  their  bedding  and  their  stores.  Bud 
had  an  old  single-barrel  shotgun,  a  knife  and  a  pipe, 
which  he  was  just  learning  to  smoke;  Bonner  brought 
a  Navajo  blanket,  a  revolver  and  a  heavy  walking 
stick.  He  also  had  a  large  flask  of  whiskey  and  the 
pipe  that  had  graduated  from  Harvard  with  him. 

At  nine  o'clock,  he  put  to  bed  in  one  of  the  chilly 
nests  a  very  sick  boy,  who  hated  to  admit  that  the 
pipe  was  too  strong  for  him,  but  who  felt  very  much 
relieved  when  he  found  himself  wrapped  snugly  in 
the  blankets  with  his  head  tucked  entirely  out  of  sight. 
Bud  had  spent  the  hour  in  regaling  Bonner  with  the 
story  of  Rosalie  Gray's  abduction  and  his  own  heroic 
conduct  in  connection  with  the  case.  He  confessed 
that  he  had  knocked  one  of  the  villains  down,  but  they 
were  too  many  for  him.  Bonner  listened  politely  and 
then — put  the  hero  to  bed. 

Bonner  dozed  off  at  midnight.  An  hour  or  so  later 
he  suddenly  sat  bolt  upright,  wide  awake  and  alert. 
He  had  the  vague  impression  that  he  was  deathly 
cold  and  that  his  hair  was  standing  on  end. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  Men  in  the  Sleigh 

LET  us  go  back  to  the  night  on  which  Rosalie  was 
seized  and  carried  away  from  Mrs.  Luce's  front  gate, 
despite  the  valiant  resistance  of  her  youthful  de 
fenders. 

Rosalie  had  drooned  Thackeray  to  the  old  lady  until 
both  of  them  were  dozing,  and  it  was  indeed  a  wel 
come  relief  that  came  with  Roscoe's  resounding 
thumps  on  the  front  door.  Mrs.  Luce  was  too  old 
to  be  frightened  out  of  a  year's  growth,  but  it  is  per 
fectly  safe  to  agree  with  her  that  the  noise  cost  her 
at  least  three  months. 

Desperately  blue  over  the  defection  of  Elsie  Banks, 
Rosalie  had  found  little  to  make  her  evening  cheerful 
indoors,  but  the  fresh,  crisp  air  set  her  spirits  bound 
ing  the  instant  she  closed  Mrs.  Luce's  door  from  the 
outside.  We  have  only  to  refer  to  Roscoe's  lively 
narrative  for  proof  of  what  followed  almost  instantly. 
She  was  seized,  her  head  tightly  wrapped  in  a  thick 
cloak  or  blanket;  then  she  was  thrown  into  a  sleigh, 
and  knew  nothing  more  except  a  smothering  sensation 
and  the  odour  of  chloroform. 

When  she  regained  consciousness  she  was  lying  on 
the  ground  in  the  open  air,  dark  night  about  her. 
Three  men  were  standing  nearby,  but  there  was  no 


1 66        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

vehicle  in  sight.  She  tried  to  rise,  but  on  account  of 
her  bonds  was  powerless  to  do  so.  Speech  was  pre 
vented  by  the  cloth  which  closed  her  lips  tightly. 
After  a  time  she  began  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  the 
muttered  words  that  passed  between  the  men. 

"You  got  the  rig  In  all  right,  Bill — you're  sure  that 
no  one  heard  or  saw  you?"  were  the  first  questions 
she  could  make  out,  evidently  arising  from  a  previous 
report  or  explanation. 

"Sure.  Everybody  in  these  parts  goes  to  bed  at  sun 
down.  They  ain't  got  nothing  to  do  but  sleep  up 
'ere." 

"Nobody  knows  we  had  that  feller's  sleigh  an'  horses 
out — nobody  ever  will  know,"  said  the  big  man,  evi 
dently  the  leader.  She  noticed  they  called  him  Sam. 
"Next  thing  is  to  git  her  across  the  river  without 
leavin'  any  tracks.  We  ain't  on  a  travelled  road  now, 
pals ;  we  got  to  be  careful.  I'll  carry  her  down  to  the 
bank;  but  be  sure  to  step  squarely  in  my  footprints — 
it'll  look  like  they  were  made  by  one  man.  See?" 

"The  river's  froze  over  an'  we  can't  be  tracked  on 
the  ice.  It's  too  dark,  too,  for  any  one  to  see  us.  Go 
ahead,  Sammy;  it's  d cold  here." 

The  big  man  lifted  her  from  the  ground  as  if  she 
were  a  feather,  and  she  was  conscious  of  being  borne 
swiftly  through  a  stretch  of  sloping  woodland  down 
to  the  river  bank,  a  journey  of  two  or  three  hundred 
yards,  it  seemed.  Here  the  party  paused  for  many 
minutes  before  venturing  out  upon  the  wide  expanse 
of  frozen  river,  evidently  making  sure  that  the  way 
was  clear.  Rosalie,  her  senses  quite  fully  restored  by 


The  Men  in  the  Sleigh  167 

this  time,  began  to  analyse  the  situation  with  a  clear 
ness  and  calmness  that  afterward  was  the  object  of 
considerable  surprise  to  her.  Instead  of  being  hysteri 
cal  with  fear,  she  was  actually  experiencing  the  thrill 
of  a  real  emotion.  She  had  no  doubt  but  that  her 
abductors  were  persons  hired  by  those  connected  with 
her  early  history,  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  she 
could  not  believe  that  bodily  harm  was  to  be  her  fate 
after  all  these  years  of  secret  attention  on  the  part  of 
those  so  deeply,  though  remotely,  interested. 

Somehow  there  raced  through  her  brain  the  exhil 
arating  conviction  that  at  last  the  mystery  of  her  origin 
was  to  be  cleared  away,  and  with  it  all  that  had  been 
as  a  closed  book.  No  thought  of  death  entered  her 
mind  at  that  time.  Afterward  she  was  to  feel  that 
death  would  be  most  welcome,  no  matter  how  it  came. 

Her  captors  made  the  trip  across  the  river  in  dead 
silence.  There  was  no  moon  and  the  night  was  inky 
black.  The  exposed  portions  of  her  face  tingled  with 
cold,  but  she  was  so  heavily  wrapped  in  the  blanket 
that  her  body  did  not  feel  the  effects  of  the  zero 
weather. 

At  length  the  icy  stretch  was  passed,  and  after  rest 
ing  a  few  minutes,  Sam  proceeded  to  ascend  the  steep 
bank  with  her  in  his  arms.  Why  she  was  not  per 
mitted  to  walk  she  did  not  know  then  or  afterward. 
It  is  possible,  even  likely,  that  the  men  thought  their 
charge  was  unconscious.  She  did  nothing  to  cause 
them  to  think  otherwise.  Again  they  passed  among 
trees,  Sam's  companions  following  in  his  footprints 
as  before.  Another  halt  and  a  brief  command  for 


1 6  8        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Davy  to  go  ahead  and  see  that  the  coast  was  clear 
came  after  a  long  and  tortuous  struggle  through  the 
underbrush.  Twice  they  seemed  to  have  lost  their 
bearings  in  the  darkness,  but  eventually  they  came  into 
the  open. 

"Here  we  are !"  grunted  Sam  as  they  hurried  across 
the  clearing.  "A  hard  night's  work,  pals,  but  I  guess 
we're  in  Easy  Street  now.  Go  ahead,  Davy,  an'  open 
the  trap!" 

Davy  swore  a  mighty  but  sibilant  oath  and  urged  his 
thick,  ugly  figure  ahead  of  the  others. 

A  moment  later  the  desperadoes  and  their  victim 
passed  through  a  door  and  into  a  darkness  even 
blacker  than  that  outside.  Davy  was  pounding  care 
fully  upon  the  floor  of  the  room  in  which  they  stood. 
Suddenly  a  faint  light  spread  throughout  the  room 
and  a  hoarse,  raucous  voice  whispered: 

"Have  you  got  her?" 

"Get  out  of  the  way — we're  near  froze,"  responded 
Davy  gruffly. 

"Get  down  there,  Bill,  and  take  her;  I'm  tired 
carryin'  this  hundred  and  twenty  pounder,"  growled 
Sam. 

The  next  instant  Rosalie  was  conscious  of  being  low 
ered  through  a  trap  door  in  the  floor,  and  then  of 
being  borne  rapidly  through  a  long,  narrow  passage, 
lighted  fitfully  by  the  rays  of  a  lantern  in  the  hands 
of  a  fourth  and  as  yet  unseen  member  of  the  band. 

"There !"  said  Bill,  impolitely  dropping  his  burden 
upon  a  pile  of  straw  in  the  corner  of  the  rather  ex 
tensive  cave  at  the  end  of  the  passage;  "wonder  if  the 


The  Men  in  the  Sleigh  169 

little  fool  is  dead.     She  ought  to  be  coming  to  by 
this  time." 

"She's  got  her  eyes  wide  open,"  uttered  the  raucous 
voice  on  the  opposite  side;  and  Rosalie  turned  her 
eyes  in  that  direction.  She  looked  for  a  full  minute 
as  if  spellbound  with  terror,  her  gaze  centred  at  the 
most  repulsive  human  face  she  ever  had  seen — the 
face  of  Davy's 
mother. 

The  woman 
was  a  giantess, 
a  huge,  hide 
ous  creature 
with  the  face 
of  a  man,  hairy 
and  bloated. 
Her  unkempt 
hair  was  grey 
almost  to 
whiteness,  her 
teeth  were 
snags,  and  her 
eyes  were  al 
most  hidden 
beneath  the 
shaggy  brow. 
There  was  a 
glare  of  brutal 
satisfaction  in 
them  that  ap 
palled  the  girl. 


i  jo        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

For  the  first  time  since  the  adventure  began  her  heart 
failed  her,  and  she  shuddered  perceptibly  as  her  lids  fell. 

"What  the  h are  you  skeering  her  fer  like  that, 

ma,"  growled  Davy.  "Don't  look  at  her  like  that, 
or " 

"See  here,  my  boy,  don't  talk  like  that  to  me  if  you 
don't  want  me  to  kick  your  head  off  right  where  you 
stand.  I'm  your  mother,  Davy,  an' " 

"That'll  do.  This  ain't  no  time  to  chew  the  rag," 
muttered  Sam.  "We're  done  fer.  Get  us  something 
to  eat  an'  something  to  drink,  old  woman;  give  the 
girl  a  nifter,  too.  She's  fainted,  I  reckon.  Hurry 
up;  I  want  to  turn  in." 

"Better  untie  her  hands — see  if  she's  froze,"  added 
Bill  savagely. 

Roughly  the  old  woman  slashed  the  bonds  from  the 
girl's  hands  and  feet  and  then  looked  askance  at  Sam, 
who  stood  warming  his  hands  over  a  kerosene  stove 
not  far  away.  He  nodded  his  head,  and  she  instantly 
untied  the  cloth  that  covered  Rosalie's  mouth. 

"It  won't  do  no  good  to  scream,  girl.  Nobody'll 
hear  ye  but  us — and  we're  your  friends,"  snarled  the 
old  woman. 

"Let  her  yell  if  she  wants  to,  Maude.  It  may  relieve 
her  a  bit,"  said  Sam,  meaning  to  be  kind.  Instinct 
ively  Rosalie  looked  about  for  the  person  addressed  as 
Maude.  There  was  but  one  woman  in  the  gang. 
Maude !  That  was  the  creature's  name.  Instead  of 
crying  or  shrieking,  Rosalie  laughed  outright. 

At  the  sound  of  the  laugh  the  woman  drew  back 
hastily. 


The  Men  in  the  Sleigh  171 

"By  gor!"  she  gasped;  "the — she's  gone  daffy!" 

The  men  turned  toward  them  with  wonder  in  their 
faces.  Bill  was  the  first  to  comprehend.  He  saw 
the  girl's  face  grow  sober  with  an  effort,  and  realised 
that  she  was  checking  her  amusement  because  it  was 
sure  to  offend. 

"Aw,"  he  grinned,  "I  don't  blame  her  fer  laughin' ! 
Say  what  ye  will,  Maude,  your  name  don't  fit  you." 

"It's  as  good  as  any  name — "  began  the  old  hag, 
glaring  at  him;  but  Sam  interposed  with  a  command 
to  her  to  get  them  some  hot  coffee  while  he  had  a 
talk  with  the  girl.  "Set  up!"  he  said  roughly,  ad 
dressing  Rosalie.  "We  ain't  goin'  to  hurt  you." 

Rosalie  struggled  to  a  sitting  posture,  her  limbs  and 
back  stiff  from  the  cold  and  inaction.  "Don't  ask 
questions,  because  they  won't  be  answered.  I  jest 
want  to  give  you  some  advice  as  to  how  you  must  act 
while  you  are  our  guest.  You  must  be  like  one  of 
the  family.  Maybe  we'll  be  here  a  day,  maybe  a 
week,  but  it  won't  be  any  longer  than  that." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  where  I  am  and  what 
this  all  means?  Why  have  you  committed  this  out 
rage?  What  have  I  done —  '  she  found  voice  to 
say.  He  held  up  his  hand. 

"You  forget  what  I  said  about  askin'  questions. 
There  ain't  nothin'  to  tell  you,  that's  all.  You're 
here  and  that's  enough." 

"Well,  who  is  it  that  has  the  power  to  answer  ques 
tions,  sir?  I  have  some  right  to  ask  them.  You 
have " 

"That'll  do,  now!"  he  growled.     "I'll  put  the  gag 


172        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

back  on  you  if  you  keep  it  up.  So's  you  won't  worry, 
I  want  to  say  this  to  you:  Your  friends  don't  know 
where  you  are,  and  they  couldn't  find  you  if  they  tried. 
You  are  to  stay  right  here  in  this  cave  until  we  get 
orders  to  move  you.  When  the  time  comes  we'll  take 
you  to  wherever  we're  ordered,  and  then  we're 
through  with  you.  Somebody  else  will  have  the  say. 
You  won't  be  hurt  here  unless  you  try  to  escape — it 
won't  do  you  any  good  to  yell.  It  ain't  a  palace,  but 
it's  better  than  the  grave.  So  be  wise.  All  we  got  to 
do  is  to  turn  you  over  to  the  proper  parties  at  the 
proper  time.  That's  all." 

"Is  the  person  you  speak  of  my — my  mother  or  my 
father?"  Rosalie  asked  with  bated  breath. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

With  the  Kidnapers 

SAM  stared  at  her,  and  there  was  something  like  real 
amazement  in  his  eyes. 

"Yer  mother  or  father?"  he  repeated  interrog 
atively.  "Wha — what  the  devil  can  they  have  to  do 
with  this  affair?  I  guess  they're  askin'  a  lot  of  ques 
tions  themselves  about  this  time." 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crow  are  not  my  parents,"  she  said; 
and  then  shrewdly  added,  "and  you  know  it,  sir." 

"I've  heard  that  sayin'  'bout  a  child  never  knowin' 
its  own  father,  but  this  business  of  both  the  father  and 
mother  is  a  new  one  on  me.  I  guess  it's  the  chloro 
form.  Give  us  that  booze,  Bill.  She's  dippy  yet." 

He  tried  to  induce  her  to  swallow  some  of  the 
whiskey,  but  steadfastly  she  refused,  until  finally,  with 
an  evil  snarl,  Sam  commanded  the  giantess  to  hold  her 
while  he  forced  the  burning  liquor  down  her  throat. 
There  was  a  brief  struggle,  but  Rosalie  was  no  match 
for  the  huge  woman,  whose  enormous  arms  encircled 
her;  and  as  the  liquid  trickled  in  upon  her  tongue 
she  heard  above  the  brutal  laughter  of  the  would-be 
doctors  the  hoarse  voice  of  Bill  crying: 

"Don't  hurt  her,  Sam!     Let  'er  alone!" 

"Close  yer  face !  Don't  you  monkey  in  this  thing, 
Bill  Briggs.  I'll — well,  you  know.  Drink  this,  damn 
youl" 


1 74        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Sputtering  and  choking,  her  heart  beating  wildly 
with  fear  and  rage,  Rosalie  was  thrown  back  upon  the 
straw  by  the  woman.  Her  throat  was  burning  from 
the  effects  of  the  whiskey  and  her  eyes  were  blinded 
by  the  tears  of  anger  and  helplessness. 

"Don't  come  any  of  your  highfalutin'  airs  with  me, 
you  little  cat,"  shrieked  the  old  woman,  rubbing  a 
knee  that  Rosalie  had  kicked  in  her  struggles. 

"Lay  still  there,"  added  Sam.  "We  don't  want  to 
hurt  you,  but  you  got  to  do  as  I  tell  you.  Under 
stand?  Not  a  word,  now!  Gimme  that  coffee-pot, 
Davy.  Go  an'  see  that  everything's  locked  up  an' 
we'll  turn  in  fer  the  night.  Maude,  you  set  up  an' 
keep  watch.  If  she  makes  a  crack,  soak  her  one." 

"You  bet  I  will.  She'll  find  she  ain't  attendin'  no 
Sunday-school  picnic." 

"No  boozin'  1"  was  Sam's  order  as  he  told  out  small 
portions  of  whiskey.  Then  the  gang  ate  ravenously 
of  the  bacon  and  beans  and  drank  cup  after  cup  of 
coffee.  Later  the  men  threw  themselves  upon  the 
piles  of  straw  and  soon  all  were  snoring.  The  big 
woman  refilled  the  lantern  and  hung  it  on  a  peg  in  the 
wall  of  the  cave ;  then  she  took  up  her  post  near  the 
square  door  leading  to  the  underground  passage,  her 
throne  an  upturned  whiskey  barrel,  her  back  against 
the  wall  of  the  cave.  She  glared  at  Rosalie  through 
the  semi-darkness,  frequently  addressing  her  with  the 
vilest  invectives  cautiously  uttered — and  all  because 
her  victim  had  beautiful  eyes  and  was  unable  to  close 
them  in  sleep. 

Rosalie's  heart  sank  as  she  surveyed  the  surround- 


With  the  Kidnapers  175 

ings  with  her  mind  once  more  clear  and  composed. 
After  her  recovery  from  the  shock  of  contact  with  the 
old  woman  and  Sam  she  shrank  into  a  state  of  mental 
lassitude  that  foretold  the  despair  which  was  to  come 
later  on.  She  did  not  sleep  that  night.  Her  brain 
was  full  of  whirling  thoughts  of  escape,  speculations 
as  to  what  was  to  become  of  her,  miserable  fears  that 
the  end  would  not  be  what  the  first  impressions  had 
made  it,  and,  over  all,  a  most  intense  horror  of  the 
old  woman,  who  dozed,  but  guarded  her  as  no  dragon 
ever  watched  in  the  days  of  long  ago. 

The  cave  in  which  they  were  housed  was  thirty  or 
forty  feet  from  side  to  side,  almost  circular  in  shape, 
a  low  roof  slanting  to  the  rocky  floor.  Here  and 
there  were  niches  in  the  walls,  and  in  the  side  opposite 
to  the  entrance  to  the  passageway  there  was  a  small, 
black  opening,  lead 
ing  without  doubt  to 
the  outer  world. 
The  fact  that  it  was 
not  used  at  any  time 
during  her  stay  in 
the  cave  led  her  to 
believe  it  was  not  of 
practical  use.  Two 
or  three  coal-oil 
stoves  were  used  to 
heat  the  cave  and 
for  cooking  pur 
poses.  There  were 
several  lanterns,  a 


176        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

number  of  implements  (such  as  spades,  axes,  crow 
bars,  sledges,  and  so  forth),  stool-kegs,  a  rough 
table,  which  was  used  for  all  purposes  known 
to  the  dining-room,  kitchen,  scullery  and  even 
bedchamber.  Sam  slept  on  the  table.  Horse 
blankets  were  thrown  about  the  floor  in  confusion. 
They  served  as  bedclothes  when  the  gang  slept. 
At  other  times  they  might  as  well  have  been 
called  doormats.  One  of  the  niches  in  the  wall  was 
used  as  the  resting  place  for  such  bones  or  remnants 
as  might  strike  it  when  hurled  in  that  direction  by 
the  occupants.  No  one  took  the  trouble  to  carefully 
bestow  anything  in  the  garbage  hole,  and  no  one  pre 
tended  to  clean  up  after  the  other.  The  place  was 
foul  smelling,  hot  and  almost  suffocating  with  the 
fumes  from  the  stoves,  for  which  there  seemed  no 
avenue  of  escape. 

Hours  afterward,  although  they  seemed  drawn  out 
into  years,  the  men  began  to  breathe  naturally,  and 
a  weird  silence  reigned  in  the  cave.  They  were 
awake.  The  venerable  Maude  emerged  from  her 
doze,  looked  apprehensively  at  Sam,  prodded  the 
corner  to  see  that  the  prize  had  not  faded  away,  and 
then  began  ponderously  to  make  preparations  for  a 
meal,  supposedly  breakfast.  Meagre  ablutions,  such 
as  they  were,  were  performed  in  the  "living  room," 
a  bucket  of  water  serving  as  a  general  wash-basin. 
No  one  had  removed  his  clothing  during  the  night, 
not  even  his  shoes.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  gang 
was  in  an  ever-ready  condition  to  evacuate  the  place 
at  a  moment's  notice. 


With  the  Kidnapers  177 

Rosalie  would  not  eat,  nor  would  she  bathe  her  face 
in  the  water  that  had  been  used  by  the  quartette  be 
fore  her.  Bill  Briggs,  with  some  sense  of  delicacy 
in  his  nature,  brought  some  fresh  water  from  the  far 
end  of  the  passageway.  For  this  act  he  was  reviled 
by  his  companions. 

"It's  no  easy  job  to  get  water  here,  Briggs," 
roared  Sam.  "We  got  to  be  savin'  with  it." 

"Well,  don't  let  it  hurt  you,"  retorted  Bill.  "I'll 
carry  it  up  from  the  river  to-night.  You  won't  have 
to  do  it." 

"She  ain't  any  better'n  I  am,"  snorted  Maude,  "and 
nobody  goes  out  to  bring  me  a  private  bath,  I  take 
notice.  Get  up  here  and  eat  something,  you  rat!  Do 
you  want  us  to  force  it  down  you " 

"If  she  don't  want  to  eat  don't  coax  her,"  said  Sam. 
"She'll  soon  get  over  that.  We  was  only  hired  to  get 
her  here  and  get  her  away  again,  and  not  to  make  her 
eat  or  even  wash.  That's  nothing  to  us." 

"Well,  she's  got  to  eat  or  she'll  die,  and  you  know, 
Sam  Welch,  that  ain't  to  be,"  retorted  the  old  woman. 

"She'll  eat  before  she'll  die,  Maudie;  don't  worry." 

"I'll  never  eat  a  mouthful!"  cried  Rosalie,  a  brave, 
stubborn  light  in  her  eyes.  She  was  standing  in  the 
far  corner  drying  her  face  with  her  handkerchief. 

"Oho,  you  can  talk  again,  eh?  Hooray!  Now 
we'll  hear  the  story  of  her  life,"  laughed  big  Sam, 
his  mouth  full  of  bacon  and  bread.  Rosalie  flushed 
and  the  tears  welled  to  her  eyes. 

All  day  long  she  suffered  taunts  and  gibes  from  the 
gang.  She  grew  to  fear  Davy's  ugly  leers  more  than 


\ 


178        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

the  brutal  words  of  the  others.  When  he  came  near 
she  shrank  back  against  the  wall ;  when  he  spoke  she 
cringed;  when  he  attempted  to  touch  her  person  she 

screamed.  It  was  this 
act  that  brought  Sam's 
wrath  upon  Davy's 
head.  He  won  some 
thing  like  gratitude 
from  the  girl  by  pro 
fanely  commanding 
Davy  to  confine  his 
love  to  looks  and  not 
to  acts. 

"She     ain't     to     be 
harmed,"    was    Sam's 
edict.  "That  goes,  too." 
.      "Aw,  you   go  to — " 
\  began    Davy    belliger 
ently. 

"What's  that?"  snarled  Sam,  whirling  upon  him 
with  a  glare.  Davy  slunk  behind  his  mother  and 
glared  back.  Bill  moved  over  to  Sam's  side.  For  a 
moment  the  air  was  heavy  with  signs  of  an  affray. 
Rosalie  crouched  in  her  corner,  her  hand  over  her 
ears,  her  eyes  closed.  There  was  murder  in  Davy's 
face.  "I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  body!" 
added  Sam;  but  Bill  laconically  stayed  him  with  a 
word. 

"Rats!"  It  was  brief,  but  it  brought  the  irate  Sam 
to  his  senses.  Trouble  was  averted  for  the  time 
being. 


With  the  Kidnapers  179 

"Davy  ain't  afraid  of  him,"  cried  that  worthy's 
mother  shrilly. 

"You  bet  I  ain't!"  added  Davy  after  a  long  string 
of  oaths.    Sam  grinned 
viciously. 

"There  ain't  nothin' 
to  fight  about,  I  guess," 
he  said,  although  he 
did  not  look  it.  "We'd 
be  fools  to  scrap. 
Everything  to  lose  and 
nothin'  to  gain.  All  I 
got  to  say,  Davy,  is 
that  you  ain't  to  touch 
that  girl." 

"Who's     goin'     to' 
touch     her?"      roared 
Davy,       bristling 
bravely.        "An'     you 
ain't  to  touch  her  nuther,"  he  added. 

The  day  wore  away,  although  it  was  always  night 
in  the  windowless  cave,  and  again  the  trio  of  men 
slept,  with  Maude  as  guard.  Exhausted  and  faint, 
Rosalie  fell  into  a  sound  sleep.  The  next  morning 
she  ate  sparingly  of  the  bacon  and  bread  and  drank 
some  steaming  coffee,  much  to  the  derisive  delight 
of  the  hag. 

"You  had  to  come  to  it,  eh?"  she  croaked.  "Had 
to  feed  that  purty  face,  after  all.  I  guess  we're  all 
alike.  We're  all  flesh  and  blood,  my  lady." 

The  old  woman  never  openly  offered  personal  vio- 


i8o        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

lence  to  the  girl.  She  stood  in  some  fear  of  the  leader 
— not  physical  fear,  but  the  strange  homage  that  a 
brute  pays  to  its  master.  Secretly  she  took  savage 

delight  in  treading  on 
the  girl's  toes  or  in 
pinching  her  arms  and 
legs,  twisting  her  hair, 
spilling  hot  coffee  on 
her  hands,  cursing  her 
softly  and  perpetrating 
all  sorts  of  little  indig 
nities  that  could  not  be 
resented,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  they 
could  not  be  proved 
against  her.  Her 
word  was  as  good  as 
Rosalie's. 

Hourly  the  strain 
grew  worse  and  worse. 
The  girl  became  ill  and  feverish  with  fear,  loathing 
and  uncertainty.  Her  ears  rang  with  the  horrors  of 
their  lewdness,  her  eyes  came  to  see  but  little,  for  she 
kept  them  closed  for  the  very  pain  of  what  they  were 
likely  to  witness.  In  her  heart  there  grew  a  constant 
prayer  for  deliverance  from  their  clutches.  She  was 
much  too  strong-minded  and  healthy  to  pray  for 
death,  but  her  mind  fairly  reeled  with  the  thoughts 
of  the  vengeance  she  would  exact. 

The  third  day  found  the  gang  morose  and  ugly. 
The  confinement  was  as  irksome  to  them  as  it  was 


With  the  Kidnapers  1 8  I 

to  her.  They  fretted  and  worried,  swore  and 
growled.  At  nightfall  of  each  day  Sam  ventured 
forth  through  the  passage  and  out  into  the  night. 
Each  time  he  was  gone  for  two  or  three  hours,  and 
each  succeeding  return  to  the  vile  cave  threw  the  gang 
into  deeper  wrath.  The  word  they  were  expecting 
was  not  forthcoming,  the  command  from  the  real 
master  was  not  given.  They  played  cards  all  day,  and 
at  last  began  to  drink  more  deeply  than  was  wise.  Two 
desperate  fights  occurred  between  Davy  and  Sam  on 
the  third  day.  Bill  and  the  old  woman  pulled  them 
apart  after  both  had  been  battered  savagely. 

"She's  sick,  Sam,"  growled  Bill,  standing 
over  the  cowering,  white-faced  prisoner  near  the 
close  of  the  fourth  day.  Sam  had  been  away  nearly 
all  of  the  previous  night,  returning  gloomily  with 
out  news  from  headquarters.  "She'll  die  in  this 

d place  and  so  will  we  if  we  don't  get  out  soon. 

Look  at  her !  Why,  she's  as  white  as  a  sheet.  Let's 
give  her  some  fresh  air,  Sammy.  It's  safe.  Take 
her  up  in  the  cabin  for  a  while.  To-night  we  can 
take  her  outside  the  place.  Good  Lord,  Sammy,  I've 
got  a  bit  of  heart !  I  can't  see  her  die  in  this  hole. 
Look  at  her!  Can't  you  see  she's  nearly  done  for?" 

After  considerable  argument,  pro  and  con,  it  was 
decided  that  it  would  be  safe  and  certainly  wise  to 
let  the  girl  breathe  the  fresh  air  once  in  a  while. 
That  morning  Sam  took  her  into  the  cabin  through 
the  passage.  The  half  hour  in  the  cold,  fresh  air 
revived  her,  strengthened  her  perceptibly.  Her 
spirits  took  an  upward  bound.  She  began  to  ask 


1 8  2        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

questions,  and  for  some  reason  he  began  to  take  notice 
of  them.  It  may  have  been  the  irksomeness  of  the 
situation,  his  own  longing  to  be  away,  his  anger 
toward  the  person  who  had  failed  to  keep  the  promise 
made  before  the  abduction,  that  led  him  to  talk  quite 
freely. 


CHAPTER  XX 

In  the  Cave 

"IT'S  not  my  fault  that  we're  still  here,"  he  growled 
in  answer  to  her  pathetic  appeal.  "I've  heard  you 
prayin'  for  Daddy  Crow  to  come  and  take  you  away. 
Well,  it's  lucky  for  him  that  he  don't  know  where 
you  are.  We'd  make  mincemeat  of  that  old  jay  in 
three  minutes.  Don't  do  any  more  prayin'.  Prayers 
are  like  dreams — you  have  'em  at  night  and  wonder 
why  the  next  day.  Now,  look  'ere,  Miss  Gray,  we 
didn't  do  this  rotten  job  for  the  love  of  excite 
ment.  We're  just  as  anxious  to  get  out  of  it  as 
you  are." 

"I  only  ask  why  I  am  held  here  and  what  is  to  be 
come  of  me?"  said  Rosalie  resignedly.  She  was 
standing  across  the  table  from  where  he  sat  smoking 
his  great,  black  pipe.  The  other  members  of  the 
gang  were  lounging  about,  surly  and  black-browed, 
chafing  inwardly  over  the  delay  in  getting  away  from 
the  cave. 

"I  don't  know  why  you've  been  held  here.  I  only 

know  it's  d slow.  I'd  chuck  the  job,  if  there 

wasn't  so  much  dust  in  it  for  me." 

"But  what  is  to  become  of  me?  I  cannot  endure 
this  much  longer.  It  is  killing  me.  Look!  I  am 
black  and  blue  from  pinches.  The  old  woman  never 
misses  an  opportunity  to  hurt  me." 


184       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"She's  jealous  of  you  because  you're  purty,  that's 
all.  Women  are  all  alike,  hang  'em !  I  wouldn't  be 
in  this  sort  of  work  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  jealous 
wife." 

He  puffed  at  his  pipe  moodily  for  a  long  time,  evi 
dently  turning  some  problem  over  and  over  in  his 
mind.  At  last,  heaving  a  deep  sigh,  and  prefacing 
his  remarks  with  an  oath,  he  let  light  in  upon  the 
mystery.  "I'll  put  you  next  to  the  job.  Can't  give 
any  names;  it  wouldn't  be  square.  You  see,  it's  this 
way :  you  ain't  wanted  in  this  country.  I  don't  know 
why,  but  you  ain't." 

"Not  wanted  in  this  country?"  she  cried  blankly. 
"I  don't  stand  in  any  one's  way.  My  life  and 
my  love  are  for  the  peaceful  home  that  you 
have  taken  me  from.  I  don't  ask  for  anything 
else.  Won't  you  tell  your  employer  as  much  for  me? 
If  I  am  released,  I  shall  never  interfere  with  the 
plans  of " 

"  'Tain't  that,  I  reckon.  You  must  be  mighty  im 
portant  to  somebody,  or  all  this  trouble  wouldn't  be 
gone  through  with.  The  funny  part  of  it  is  that'we 
ain't  to  hurt  you.  You  ain't  to  be  killed,  you  know. 
That's  the  queer  part  of  it,  ain't  it?" 

"I'll  admit  it  has  an  agreeable  sound  to  me,"  said 
Rosalie  with  a  shadow  of  a  smile  on  her  trembling 
lips.  "It  seems  ghastly,  though." 

"Well,  anyhow,  it's  part  of  somebody's  scheme  to 
get  you  out  of  this  country  altogether.  You  are  to 
be  taken  away  on  a  ship,  across  the  ocean,  I  think. 
Paris  or  London,  mebby,  and  you  are  never  to  come 


"SHE     SHRANK     BACK     FROM     ANOTHRR     BLOW     WHICH     SEEMED 
IMPENDING  " 


In  the  Cave  185 

back  to  the  United  States.  Never,  that's  what  I'm 
told." 

Rosalie  was  speechless,  stunned.  Her  eyes  grew 
wide  with  the  misery  of  doubt  and  horror,  her  lips 
moved  as  if  forming  the  words  which  would  not 
come.  Before  she  could  bring  a  sound  from  the 
contracted  throat  the  raucous  voice  of  old  Maude 
broke  in : 

"What  are  you  tellin'  her,  Sam  Welch?  Can't  you 
keep  your  face  closed?"  she  called,  advancing  upon 
him  with  a  menacing  look. 

"Aw,  it's  nothin'  to  you,"  he  retorted,  but  an  un 
comfortable  expression  suddenly  crept  into  his  face. 
A  loud,  angry  discussion  ensued,  the  whole  gang  en 
gaging.  Three  to  one  was  the  way  it  stood  against 
the  leader,  who  was  forced  to  admit,  secretly  if  not 
publicly,  that  he  had  no  right  to  talk  freely  of  the 
matter  to  the  girl.  In  vain  she  pleaded  and  prom 
ised.  Her  tears  were  of  no  avail,  once  Sam  had  con 
cluded  to  hold  his  tongue.  Angry  with  himself  for 
having  to  submit  to  the  demands  of  the  others,  furious 
because  she  saw  his  surrender,  Sam,  without  a  word 
of  warning,  suddenly  struck  her  on  the  side  of  the 
head  with  the  flat  of  his  broad  hand,  sending  her  reel 
ing  into  the  corner.  Dazed,  hurt  and  half  stunned,  she 
dropped  to  her  knees,  unable  to  stand.  With  a  piteous 
look  in  her  eyes  she  shrank  back  from  another  blow 
which  seemed  impending.  Bill  Briggs  grasped  his 
leader's  arm  and  drew  him  away,  cursing  and  snarling. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  Bill  was  permitted  to  conduct 
her  into  the  cabin  above,  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  air, 


1 86        The  "Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

and  for  a  glimpse 
of  the  failing  sun 
light.  She  had 
scarcely  taken  her 
stand  before  the 
little  window  when 
she  was  hastily 
jerked  away,  but 
not  before  she 
thought  she  had 
perceived  a  crowd 
of  men,  huddling 
among  the  trees 
not  far  away.  A 
scream  for  help  started  to  her  lips;  but  Bill's  heavy 
hand  checked  it  effectually.  His  burly  arm  sent  her 
scuttling  toward  the  trap-door;  and  a  second  later 
she  was  below,  bruised  from  the  fall  and  half  fainting 
with  disappointment  and  despair. 

Brief  as  the  glimpse  had  been,  she  was  positive  she 
recognised  two  faces  in  the  crowd  of  men — Anderson 
Crow's  and  Ed  Higgins's.  It  meant,  if  her  eyes  did 
not  deceive  her,  that  the  searchers  were  near  at  hand, 
and  that  dear,  old  Daddy  Crow  was  leading  them. 
Her  hopes  flew  upward  and  she  could  not  subdue 
the  triumphant  glance  that  swept  the  startled  crowd 
when  Bill  breathlessly  broke  the  news. 

Absolute  quiet  reigned  in  the  cave  after  that. 
Maude  cowed  the  prisoner  into  silence  with  the  threat 
to  cut  out  her  tongue  if  she  uttered  a  cry.  Later,  the 
tramp  of  feet  could  be  heard  on  the  floor  of  the  cabin. 


In  the  Cave  187 

There  was  a  sound  of  voices,  loud  peals  of  laughter, 
and  then  the  noise  made  by  some  one  in  the  cellar 
that  served  as  a  blind  at  one  end  of  the  cabin.  After 
that,  dead  silence.  At  nightfall,  Sam  stealthily  ven 
tured  forth  to  reconnoitre.  He  came  back  with  the 
report  that  the  woods  and  swamps  were  clear  and 
that  the  searchers,  if  such  they  were,  had  gone 
away. 

"The  house,  since  Davy's  grandma's  bones  were 
stored  away  in  that  cellar  for  several  moons,  has 
always  been  thought  to  be  haunted.  The  fools  prob 
ably  thought  they  saw  a  ghost — an'  they're  runnin' 
yet." 

Then  for  the  first  time  Rosalie  realised  that  she  was 
in  the  haunted  cabin  in  the  swamp,  the  most  fearsome 
of  all  places  in  the  world  to  Tinkletown,  large  and 
small.  Not  more  than  three  miles  from  her  own  fire 
side  !  Not  more  than  half  an  hour's  walk  from 
Daddy  Crow  and  others  in  the  warmth  of  whose  love 
she  had  lived  so  long! 

"It's  gettin'  too  hot  here  for  us,"  growled  Sam  at 
supper.  "We've  just  got  to  do  something.  I'm 
going  out  to-night  to  see  if  there's  any  word  from 
the — from  the  party.  These  guys  ain't  all  fools. 
Somebody  is  liable  to  nose  out  the  trap-door  before 
long  and  there'll  be  hell  to  pay.  They  won't  come 
back  before  to-morrow,  I  reckon.  By  thunder,  there 
ought  to  be  word  from  the — the  boss  by  this  time. 
Lay  low,  everybody;  I'll  be  back  before  daybreak. 
This  time  I'm  a-goin'  to  find  out  something  sure  or 
know  the  reason  why.  I'm  gettin'  tired  of  this  busi- 


I  8  8        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

ness.    Never  know  what  minute  the  jig's  up,  nor  when 
the  balloon  busts." 

Again  he  stole  forth  into  the  night,  leaving  his 
companions  more  or  less  uneasy  as  to  the  result,  after 
the  startling  events  of  the  afternoon.  Hour  after 
hour  passed,  and  with  every  minute  therein,  Rosalie's 
ears  strained  themselves  to  catch  the  first  sound  of 
approaching  rescuers.  Her  spirits  fell,  but  her  hopes 
were  high.  She  felt  sure  that  the  men  outside  had 


seen  her  face  and  that  at  last  they  had  discovered  the 
place  in  which  she  was  kept.  It  would  only  be  a  ques 
tion  of  time  until  they  learned  the  baffling  secret  of 
the  trap-door.  Her  only  fear  lay  in  the  possibility 
that  she  might  be  removed  by  her  captors  before  the 
rescuers  could  accomplish  her  delivery.  Her  bright, 


In  the  Cave  189 

feverish,  eager  eyes,  gleaming  from  the  sunken  white 
cheeks,  appealed  to  Bill  Briggs  more  than  he  cared 
to  admit.  The  ruffian,  less  hardened  than  his  fellows, 
began  to  feel  sorry  for  her. 

Eleven  o'clock  found  the  trio  anxious  and  ugly  in 
their  restlessness.  There  was  no  sleep  for  them. 
Davy  visited  the  trap  over  a  hundred  times  that  night. 
His  mother,  breaking  over  the  traces  of  restraint, 
hugged  the  jug  of  whiskey,  taking  swig  after  swig  as 
the  vigil  wore  on.  At  last  Davy,  driven  to  it,  insisted 
upon  having  his  share.  Bill  drank  but  little,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  Rosalie  observed  the  shifty,  ner 
vous  look  in  his  eyes.  From  time  to  time  he  slyly 
appropriated  certain  articles,  dropping  them  into  his 
coat  pocket.  His  ear  muffs,  muffler,  gloves,  matches, 
tobacco  and  many  chunks  of  bread  and  bacon  were 
stowed  stealthily  in  the  pockets  of  his  coat.  At  last 
it  dawned  upon  her  that  Bill  was  preparing  to  desert. 
Hope  lay  with  him,  then.  If  he  could  only  be  in 
duced  to  give  her  an  equal  chance  to  escape ! 

Mother  and  son  became  maudlin  in  their — not  cups, 
but  jug;  but  Davy  had  the  sense  to  imbibe  more  cau 
tiously,  a  fact  which  seemed  to  annoy  the  nervous 
Bill. 

"I  must  have  air — fresh  air,"  suddenly  moaned 
Rosalie  from  her  corner,  the  strain  proving  too  great 
for  her  nerves.  Bill  strode  over  and  looked  down 
upon  the  trembling  form  for  a  full  minute.  "Take 
me  outside  for  just  a  minute — just  a  minute,  please. 
I  am  dying  in  here." 

"Lemme  take  her  out,"  cackled  old  Maude.     "I'll 


190        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

give  her  all  the  air  she  wants.  Want  so — some  air 
myself.  Lemme  give  her  air,  Bill.  Have  some  air 
on  me,  pardner.  Lemme " 

"Shut  up,  Maude!"  growled  Bill,  glancing  uneasily 
about  the  cave.  "I'll  take  her  up  in  the  cabin  fer  a 
couple  of  minutes.  There  ain't  no  danger." 

Davy  protested,  but  Bill  carried  his  point,  simply 
because  he  was  sober  and  knew  his  power  over  the 
half-stupefied  pair.  Davy  let  them  out  through  the 
trap,  promising  to  wait  below  until  they  were  ready 
to  return. 

"Are  you  going  away?"  whispered  Rosalie,  as  they 
passed  out  into  the  cold,  black  night. 

"Sh !    Don't  talk,  damn  you !"  he  hissed. 

"Let  me  go  too.  I  know  the  way  home  and  you 
need  have  no  fear  of  me.  I  like  you,  but  I  hate  the 
others.  Please,  please !  For  God's  sake,  let  me  go ! 
They  can't  catch  me  if  I  have  a  little  start." 

"I'd  like  to,  but  I — I  dassent.  Sam  would  hunt  me 
down  and  kill  me — he  would  sure.  I  am  goin'  my 
self — I  can't  stand  it  no  longer." 

"Have  pity !  Don't  leave  me  alone  with  them.  Oh, 
God,  if  you " 

Moaning  piteously,  she  pleaded  with  him;  but  he 
was  obdurate,  chiefly  through  fear  of  the  conse 
quences.  In  his  heart  he  might  have  been  willing  to 
give  her  the  chance,  but  his  head  saw  the  danger  to 
itself  and  it  was  firm. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  whispered  in 
the  end.  "I'll  take  you  back  there  and  then  I'll 
go  and  tell  your  friends  where  you  are  and  how 


In  the  Ca<ve  191 

to  help  you.  Honest!  Honest,  I  will.  I  know  it's 
as  broad  as  it  is  long,  but  I'd  rather  do  it  that  way. 
They'll  be  here  in  a  couple  of  hours  and  you'll  be  free. 
Nobody  will  be  the  wiser.  Curse  your  whining! 
Shut  up  !  Damn  you,  get  back  in  there !  Don't  give 
me  away  to  Davy,  and  I'll  swear  to  help  you  out  of 
this." 

A  minute  of  two  later,  he  dragged  her  back  into 
the  cabin,  moaning,  pleading,  and  crying  from  the 
pain  of  a  sudden  blow.  Ten  minutes  afterward  he 
went  forth  again,  this  time  ostensibly  to  meet  Sam; 
but  Rosalie  knew  that  he  was  gone  forever. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

The  Trap-Door 

A  SICKLY  new  moon  threw  vague  ghostly  beams 
across  the  willow-lined  swamp,  out  beyond  the  little 
cabin  that  stood  on  its  border.  Through  the  dense 
undergrowth  and  high  among  the  skeleton  treetops 
ugly  shadows  played  with  each  other,  while  a  sepul 
chral  orchestra  of  wind  and  bough  shrieked  a  dirge 
that  flattened  in  Bonner's  ears;  but  it  was  not  the 
weird  music  of  the  swamp  that  sent  the  shudder  of 
actual  terror  through  the  frame  of  the  big  athlete. 
A  series  of  muffled,  heartbreaking  moans,  like  those 
of  a  woman  in  dire  pain,  came  to  his  ears.  He  felt 
the  cold  perspiration  start  over  his  body.  His  nerves 
grew  tense  with  trepidation,  his  eyes  wide  with  hor 
ror.  Instinctively,  his  fingers  clutched  the  revolver 
at  his  side  and  his  gaze  went  toward  the  black,  square 
thing  which  marked  the  presence  of  the  haunted 
house.  The  orchestra  of  the  night  seemed  to  bring 
its  dirge  to  a  close ;  a  chill  interlude  of  silence  ensued. 
The  moans  died  away  into  choking  sobs,  and  Bon 
ner's  ears  could  hear  nothing  else.  A  sudden  thought 
striking  him,  he  rolled  out  of  his  bed  and  made  his 
way  to  Bud's  pile  of  blankets.  But  the  solution  was  not 
there.  The  lad  was  sound  asleep  and  no  sound  issued 
from  his  lips.  The  moans  came  from  another  source, 
human  or  otherwise,  out  there  in  the  crinkling  night. 


The  Trap- Door  193 

Carefully  making  his  way  from  the  tent,  his  cour 
age  once  more  restored  but  his  flesh  still  quivering, 
Bonner  looked  intently  for  manifestations  in  the 
black  home  of  Johanna  Rank.  He  half  expected  to 
see  a  ghostly  light  flit  past  a  window.  It  was  in 
tensely  dark  in  the  thicket,  but  the  shadowy  marsh 
beyond  silhouetted  the  house  into  a  black  relief.  He 
was  on  all  fours  behind  a  thick  pile  of  brush,  ner 
vously  drawing  his  pipe  from  his  pocket,  conscious 
that  he  needed  it  to  steady  his  nerves,  when  a  fresh 
sound,  rising  above  the  faint  sobs,  reached  his  ears. 
Then  the  low  voice  of  a  man  came  from  some  place 
in  the  darkness,  and  these  words  rang  out  distinctly: 

"Damn  you!" 

He  drew  back  involuntarily,  for  the  voice  seemed 
to  be  at  his  elbow.  The  sobs  ceased  suddenly,  as  if 
choked  by  a  mighty  hand. 

The  listener's  inclination  was  to  follow  the  example 
of  Anderson  Crow  and  run  madly  off  into  the  night. 
But  beneath  this  natural  panic  was  the  soul  of  chiv 
alry.  Something  told  him  that  a  woman  out  there 
in  the  solitude  needed  the  arms  of  a  man;  and  his 
blood  began  to  grow  hot  again.  Presently  the 
silence  was  broken  by  a  sharp  cry  of  despair  : 

"Have  pity!  Oh,  God — "  moaned  the  voice  that 
sent  thrills  through  his  body — the  voice  of  a  woman, 
tender,  refined,  crushed.  His  fingers  gripped  the 
revolver  with  fresh  vigor,  but  almost  instantly  the 
rustling  of  dead  leaves  reached  his  ears:  the  man 
and  his  victim  were  making  their  way  toward  the 
house. 


194        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Bonner  crouched  among  the  bushes  as  if  paralysed. 
He  began  to  comprehend  the  situation.  In  a  vague 
sort  of  way  he  remembered  hearing  of  Tinkletown's 
sensation  over  at  his  uncle's  house,  where  he  was 
living  with  a  couple  of  servants  for  a  month's  shoot 
ing.  The  atmosphere  had  been  full  of  the  sensa 
tional  abduction  story  for  several  days — the  abduc 
tion  of  a  beautiful  young  woman  and  the  helpless 
attitude  of  the  relatives  and  friends.  Like  a  whirl 
wind  the  whole  situation  spread  itself  before  him; 
it  left  him  weak.  He  had  come  upon  the  gang  and 
their  victim  in  this  out-of-the-way  corner  of  the 
world,  far  from  the  city  toward  which  they  were 
supposed  to  have  fled.  He  had  the'  solution  in  his 
hands  and  he  was  filled  with  the  fire  of  the  ancients. 

A  light  appeared  in  the  low  doorway  and  the  squat 
figure  of  a  man  held  a  lantern  on  high.  An  instant 
later,  another  man  dragged  the  helpless  girl  across 
the  threshold  and  into  the  house.  Even  as  Bonner 
squared  himself  to  rush  down  upon  them  the  light 
disappeared  and  darkness  fell  over  the  cabin.  There 
was  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  floor,  a  creaking  of 
hinges  and  the  stealthy  closing  of  a  door.  Then 
there  was  absolute  quiet. 

Bonner  was  wise  as  well  as  brave.  He  saw  that  to 
rush  down  upon  the  house  now  might  prove  his  owrn 
as  well  as  her  undoing.  In  the  darkness,  the  bandits 
would  have  every  advantage.  For  a  moment  he 
glared  at  the  black  shadow  ahead,  his  brain  working 
like  lightning. 

"That  poor  girl!"  he  muttered  vaguely.     "Damn 


The  Trap-Door  195 

beasts!     But  I'll  fix  'em,  by  heaven!     It  won't  be 
long,  my  boys." 

His  pondering  brought  quick  results.  Crawling  to 
Bud's  cot,  he  aroused  him  from  a  deep  sleep.  Inside 
of  two  minutes  the  lad  was  streaking  off  through  the 
woods  toward  town,  with  instructions  to  bring  An 
derson  Crow  and  a  large  force  of  men  to  the  spot  as 
quickly  as  possible. 

"I'll  stand  guard,"  said  Wicker  Bonner. 

As  the  minutes  went  by  Bonner's  thoughts  dwelt 
more  and  more  intently  upon  the  poor,  imprisoned 
girl  in  the  cabin.  His  blood  charged  his  reason  and 
he  could  scarce  control  the  impulse  to  dash  in  upon 
the  wretches.  Then  he  brought  himself  up  with  a 
jerk.  Where  was  he  to  find  them?  Had  he  not 
searched  the  house  that  morning  and  was  there  a  sign 
of  life  to  be  found?  He  was  stunned  by  this  memory. 
For  many  minutes  he  stood  with  his  perplexed  eyes 
upon  the  house  before  a  solution  came  to  him. 

He  now  knew  that  there  was  a  secret  apartment  in 
the  old  house  and  a  secret  means  of  entrance  and  exit. 
With  this  explanation  firmly  impressed  upon  his 
mind,  Wicker  Bonner  decided  to  begin  his  own  cam 
paign  for  the  liberation  of  Rosalie  Gray.  It  would 
be  hours  before  the  sluggish  Anderson  Crow  ap 
peared;  and  Bonner  was  not  the  sort  to  leave  a 
woman  in  jeopardy  if  it  was  in  his  power  to  help  her. 
Besides,  the  country  people  had  filled  him  with  stories 
of  Miss  Gray's  beauty,  and  they  found  him  at  an 
impressionable  and  heart-free  age.  The  thrill  of 
romance  seized  him  and  he  was  ready  to  dare. 


196        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

He  crept  up  to  the  doorway  and  listened.  Rea 
son  told  him  that  the  coast  was  clear;  the  necessity 
for  a  sentinel  did  not  exist,  so  cleverly  were  the  des 
peradoes  under  cover.  After  a  few  moments,  he 
crawled  into  the  room,  holding  his  breath,  as  he  made 
his  way  toward  the  cellar  staircase.  He  had  gone 
but  a  few  feet  when  the  sound  of  voices  came  to  him. 
Slinking  into  a  corner,  he  awaited  developments. 
The  sounds  came  from  below,  but  not  from  the  cel 
lar  room,  as  he  had  located  it.  A  moment  later,  a 
man  crawled  into  the  room,  coming  through  a  hole  in 
the  floor,  just  as  he  had  suspected.  A  faint  light  from 
below  revealed  the  sinister  figure  plainly,  but  Bonner 
felt  himself  to  be  quite  thoroughly  hidden.  The  man 
in  the  room  spoke  to  some  one  below. 

"I'll  be  back  in  half  an  hour,  Davy.  I'll  wait  fer 
Sam  out  there  on  the  Point.  He  ought  to  have  some 
news  from  headquarters  by  this  time.  I  don't  see 
why  we  have  to  hang  around  this  place  forever.  She 
ought  to  be  half  way  to  Paris  by  now." 

"They  don't  want  to  take  chances,  Bill,  till  the  ex 
citement  blows  over." 

"Well,  you  an'  your  mother  just  keep  your  hands 
off  of  her  while  I'm  out,  that's  all,"  warned  Bill 
Briggs. 

The  trap-door  was  closed,  and  Bonner  heard  the 
other  occupant  of  the  room  shuffle  out  into  the  night. 
He  was  not  long  in  deciding  what  to  do.  Here  was 
the  chance  to  dispose  of  one  of  the  bandits,  and  he 
was  not  slow  to  seize  it.  There  was  a  meeting  in  the 
thicket  a  few  minutes  later,  and  Bill  was  "out  of  the 


The  Trap-Door  197 

way"  for  the  time  being.  Wicker  Bonner  dropped 
him  with  a  sledge-hammer  blow,  and  when  he  re 
turned  to  the  cabin  Bill  was  lying  bound  and  gagged 
in  the  tent,  a  helpless  captive. 

His  conqueror,  immensely  satisfied,  supplied  himself 
with  the  surplus  ends  of  "guy  ropes"  from  the  tent 
and  calmly  sat  down  to  await  the  approach  of  the 
one  called  Sam,  he  who  had  doubtless  gone  to  a 
rendezvous  "for  news."  He  could  well  afford  to 
bide  his  time.  With  two  of  the  desperadoes  disposed 
of  in  ambuscade,  he  could  have  a  fairly  even  chance 
with  the  man  called  Davy. 

It  seemed  hours  before  he  heard  the  stealthy  ap 
proach  of  some  one  moving  through  the  bushes.  He 
was  stiff  with  cold,  and  chafing  at  the  interminable 
delay,  but  the  approach  of  real  danger  quickened  his 
blood  once  more.  There  was  another  short,  sharp, 
silent  struggle  near  the  doorway,  and  once  more 
Wicker  Bonner  stood  victorious  over  an  unsuspecting 
and  now  unconscious  bandit.  Sam,  a  big,  powerful 
man,  was  soon  bound  and  gagged  and  his  bulk 
dragged  off  to  the  tent  among  the  bushes. 

"Now  for  Davy,"  muttered  Bonner,  stretching  his 
great  arms  in  the  pure  relish  of  power.  "There  will 
be  something  doing  around  your  heart,  Miss  Babe- 
in-the-Woods,  in  a  very  few  minutes." 

He  chuckled  as  he  crept  into  the  cabin,  first  having 
listened  intently  for  sounds.  For  some  minutes  he 
lay  quietly  with  his  ear  to  the  floor.  In  that  time 
he  solved  one  of  the  problems  confronting  him.  The 
man  Davy  was  a  son  of  old  Mrs.  Rank's  murderer, 


198        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

and  the  "old  woman"  who  kept  watch  with  him  was 
his  mother,  wife  of  the  historic  David.  It  was  she  who 
had  held  the  lantern,  no  doubt,  while  David  Wolfe 
chopped  her  own  mother  to  mincemeat.  This  ac 
counted  for  the  presence  of  the  gang  in  the  haunted 
house  and  for  their  knowledge  of  the  underground 
room. 

Bonner's  inspiration  began  to  wear  off.  Pure  luck 
had  aided  him  up  to  this  stage,  but  the  bearding  of 
David  in  his  lair  was  another  proposition  altogether. 
His  only  hope  was  that  he  might  find  the  man  asleep. 
He  was  not  taking  the  old  woman  into  consideration 
at  all.  Had  he  but  known  it,  she  was  the  most 
dangerous  of  all. 

His  chance,  he  thought,  lay  in'  strategy.  It  was 
impossible  to  open  the  trap-door  from  above,  he  had 
found  by  investigation.  There  was  but  one  way  to 
get  to  Miss  Gray,  and  that  was  by  means  of  a  daring 
ruse.  Trusting  to  luck,  he  tapped  gently  on  the 
floor  at  the  spot  where  memory  told  him  the  trap 
door  was  situated.  His  heart  was  thumping  violently. 

There  was  a  movement  below  him,  and  then  the 
sound  of  some  one  handling  the  bolts  in  the  door. 
Bonner  drew  back,  hoping  against  hope  that  a  light 
would  not  be  shown.  In  one  hand  he  held  his  re 
volver  ready  for  use;  in  the  other  his  heavy  walking 
stick.  His  plans  were  fully  developed.  After  a 
moment  the  trap  was  lifted  partially  and  a  draft  of 
warm  air  came  out  upon  him. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

Jack,  the  Giant  Killer 

"THAT  you,  Sam?"  half  whispered  a  man's  voice. 
There  was  no  light. 

"Sh!"  hissed  Bonner,  muffling  his  voice.  "Is  every 
body  in?" 

"Bill's  waitin'  fer  you  outside.  Ma  an'  me  are  here. 
Come  on  down.  What's  up?" 

"How's  the  girl?" 

"Bellerin'  like  a  baby.  Ma's  with  her  in  the  cave. 
Hurry  up !  This  thing's  heavy." 

For  reply  Bonner  seized  the  edge  of  the  door  with 
his  left  hand,  first  pushing  his  revolver  in  his  trousers' 
pocket.  Then  he  silently  swung  the  heavy  cane 
through  the  air  and  downward,  a  very  faint  light 
from  below  revealing  the  shock  head  of  Davy  in 
the  aperture.  It  was  a  mighty  blow  and  true.  Davy's 
body  fell  away  from  the  trap,  and  a  second  later 
Bonner's  dropped  through  the  hole.  He  left  the 
trap  wide  open  in  case  retreat  were  necessary.  Paus 
ing  long  enough  to  assure  himself  that  the  man  was 
unconscious  and  bleeding  profusely,  and  to  snatch 
the  big  revolver  from  Davy's  person,  Bonner  turned 
his  attention  to  the  surroundings. 

Perhaps  a  hundred  feet  away,  at  the. end  of  a  long, 
low  passage,  he  saw  the  glimmer  of  a  light.  With 
out  a  second's  hesitation  he  started  toward  it,  feeling 


2oo        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

that  the  worst  of  the  adventure  was  past.  A  shadow 
coming  between  him  and  the  light,  he  paused  in  his 
approach.  This  shadow  resolved  itself  into  the  form 
of  a  woman,  a  gigantic  creature,  who  peered  intently 
up  the  passage. 

"What's  the  matter,  Davy?"  she  called  in  raucous 
tones.  "You  damn  fool,  can't  you  do  anything  with 
out  breaking  your  neck?  I  reckon  you  fell  down  the 
steps?  That  you,  Sam?" 

Receiving  no  answer,  the  woman  clutched  the 
lantern  and  advanced  boldly  upon  Bonner,  who  stood 
far  down  the  passage,  amazed  and  irresolute.  She 
looked  more  formidable  to  him  than  any  of  the  men, 
so  he  prepared  for  a  struggle. 

"Halt!"  he  cried,  when  she  was  within  ten  feet  of 
him.  "Don't  resist;  you  are  surrounded!" 

The  woman  stopped  like  one  shot,  glared  ahead  as 
if  she  saw  him  for  the  first  time,  and  then  uttered  a 
frightful  shriek  of  rage.  Dashing  the  lantern  to  the 
ground,  she  raised  her  arm  and  fired  a  revolver  point 
blank  at  Bonner,  despite  the  fact  that  his  pistol  was 
covering  her.  He  heard  the  bullet  crash  into  the 
rotten  timbers  near  his  ear.  Contrary  to  her  design, 
the  lantern  was  not  extinguished.  Instead,  it  lay 
sputtering  but  effective  upon  the  floor. 

Before  Bonner  could  make  up  his  mind  to  shoot  at 
the  woman  she  was  upon  him,  firing  again  as  she 
came.  He  did  not  have  time  to  retaliate.  The  huge 
frame  crushed  down  upon  him  and  his  pistol  flew 
from  his  hand.  As  luck  would  have  it,  his  free  hand 
clutched  her  revolver,  and  she  was  prevented  from 


Jack,  the  Giant  Killer  201 

blowing  his  brains  out  with  the  succeeding  shots,  all 
of  which  went  wild. 

Then  came  a  desperate  struggle.  Bonner,  a  trained 
athlete,  realised  that  she  was  even  stronger  than  he, 
more  desperate  in  her  frenzy,  and  with  murder  in  her 
heart.  As  they  lunged  to  and  fro,  her  curses  and 


2O2        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

shrieks  in  his  ear,  he  began  to  feel  the  despair  of 
defeat.  She  was  beating  him  down  with  one  mighty 
arm,  crushing  blows,  every  one  *>f  them.  Then  came 
the  sound  which  turned  the  tide  of  battle,  for  it  filled 
him  with  a  frenzy  equal  to  her  own.  The  scream  of 
a  woman  came  down  through  the  passage,  piteous, 
terror-stricken. 

He  knew  the  fate  of  that  poor  girl  if  his  adversary 
overcame  him.  The  thought  sent  his  blood  hot  and 
cold  at  once.  Infuriatedly,  he  exerted  his  fine 
strength,  and  the  tide  turned.  Panting  and  snarling, 
the  big  woman  was  battered  down.  He  flung  her 
heavily  to  the  ground  and  then  leaped  back  to  pick 
up  his  revolver,  expecting  a  renewal  of  the  attack. 
For  the  first  time  he  was  conscious  of  intense  pain  in 
his  left  leg.  The  woman  made  a  violent  effort  to 
rise,  and  then  fell  back,  groaning  and  cursing. 

"You've  done  it!  You've  got  me!"  she  yelled. 
"My  leg's  broke !"  Then  she  shrieked  for  Davy  and 
Bill  and  Sam,  raining  curses  upon  the  law  and  upon 
the  traitor  who  had  been  their  undoing. 

Bonner,  his  own  leg  wobbling  and  covered  with 
blood,  tried  to  quiet  her,  but  without  success.  He 
saw  that  she  was  utterly  helpless,  her  leg  twisted 
under  her  heavy  body.  Her  screams  of  pain  as  he 
turned  her  over  proved  conclusively  that  she  was  not 
shamming.  Her  hip  was  dislocated.  The  young 
man  had  sense  enough  left  to  return  to  Davy  before 
venturing  into  the  cave  where  Miss  Gray  was  doubt 
less  in  a  dead  faint.  The  man  was  breathing,  but 
still  unconscious  from  the  blow  on  the  head.  Bonner 


Jack,  the  Giant  Killer  203 

quickly  tied  his  hands  and  feet,  guarding  against 
emergencies  in  case  of  his  own  incapacitation  as  the 
result  of  the  bullet  wound  in  his  leg;  then  he  hobbled 
off  with  the  lantern  past  the  groaning  Amazon  in 
quest  of  Rosalie  Gray.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  until 
afterward  that  single  handed  he  had  overcome  a  most 
desperate  band  of  criminals,  so  simply  had  it  all 
worked  out  up  to  the  time  of  the  encounter  with  the 
woman. 

A  few  yards  beyond  where  the  old  woman  lay  moan 
ing  he  came  upon  the  cave  in  which  the  bandits  made 
their  home.  Holding  the  lantern  above  his  head, 
Bonner  peered  eagerly  into  the  cavern.  In  the  far 
thest  corner  crouched  a  girl,  her  terror-struck  eyes 
fastened  upon  the  stranger. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Gray,"  came  the  cheery 
greeting  from  his  lips.  She  gasped,  swept  her  hand 
over  her  eyes,  and  tried  piteously  to  speak.  The 
words  would  not  come.  "The  long-prayed- for  rescue 
has  come.  You  are  free — that  is,  as  soon  as  we  find 
our  way  out  of  this  place.  Let  me  introduce  myself 
as  Jack,  the  Giant  Killer — hello!  Don't  do  that! 
Oh,  the  devil!"  She  had  toppled  over  in  a  dead 
faint. 

How  Wicker  Bonner,  with  his  wounded  leg,  weak 
from  loss  of  blood,  and  faint  from  the  reaction, 
carried  her  from  the  cave  through  the  passage  and 
the  trap-door  and  into  the  tent  can  only  be  imagined, 
not  described.  He  only  knew  that  it  was  necessary 
to  remove  her  from  the  place,  and  that  his  strength 
would  soon  be  gone.  The  sun  was  tinting  the  east 


204        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

before  she  opened  her  eyes  and  shuddered.  In  the 
meantime  he  had  stanched  the  flow  of  blood  in  the 
fleshy  part  of  his  leg,  binding  the  limb  tightly  with 
a  piece  of  rope.  It  was  an  ugly,  glancing  cut  made 
by  a  bullet  of  large  calibre,  and  it  was  sure  to  put  him 
on  crutches  for  some  time  to  come.  Even  now  he 
was  scarcely  able  to  move  the  member.  For  an  hour 
he  had  been  venting  his  wrath  upon  the  sluggish 
Anderson  Crow,  who  should  have  been  on  the  scene 
long  before  this.  Two  of  his  captives,  now  fully 
conscious,  were  glaring  at  their  companions  in  the 
tent  with  hate  in  their  eyes. 

Rosalie  Gray,  wan,  dishevelled,  but  more  beautiful 
than  the  reports  had  foretold,  could  not  at  first  be 
lieve  herself  to  be  free  from  the  clutches  of  the 
bandits.  It  took  him  many  minutes — many  painful 
minutes — to  convince  her  that  it  was  not  a  dream,  and 
that  in  truth  he  was  Wicker  Bonner,  gentleman.  Sit 
ting  with  his  back  against  a  tent  pole,  facing  the 
cabin  through  the  flap,  with  a  revolver  in  his  trem 
bling  hand,  he  told  her  of  the  night's  adventures,  and 
was  repaid  tenfold  by  the  gratitude  which  shone  from 
her  eyes  and  trembled  in  her  voice.  In  return  she  told 
him  of  her  capture,  of  the  awful  experiences  in  the 
cave,  and  of  the  threats  which  had  driven  her  almost 
to  the  end  of  endurance. 

"Oh,  oh,  I  could  love  you  forever  for  this!"  she 
cried  in  the  fulness  of  her  joy.  A  rapturous  smile 
flew  to  Bonner's  eyes. 

"Forever  begins  with  this  instant,  Miss  Gray,"  he 
said;  and  without  any  apparent  reason  the  two  shook 


,  the  Giant  Killer  205 

hands.  Afterward  they  were  to  think  of  this  trivial 
act  and  vow  that  it  was  truly  the  beginning.  They 
were  young,  heart-free,  and  full  of  the  romance  of 
life. 

"And  those  awful  men  are  really  captured — and  the 
woman?"  she  cried,  after  another  exciting  recital 
from  him.  Sam  and  Bill  fairly  snarled.  "Suppose 
they  should  get  loose?"  Her  eyes  grew  wide  with 
the  thought  of  it. 

"They  can't,"  he  said  laconically.  "I  wish  the  mar 
shal  and  his  bicycle  army  would  hurry  along.  That 
woman  and  Davy  need  attention.  I'd  hate  like  the 
mischief  to  have  either  of  them  die.  One  doesn't 
want  to  kill  people,  you  know,  Miss  Gray." 

"But  they  were  killing  me  by  inches,"  she  protested. 

"Ouch!"  he  groaned,  his  leg  giving  him  a  mighty 
twinge. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried  in  alarm.  "Why  should  we 
wait  for  those  men?  Come,  Mr.  Bonner,  take  me 
to  the  village — please  do.  I  am  crazy,  absolutely 
crazy,  to  see  Daddy  Crow  and  mother.  I  can  walk 
there — how  far  is  it? — please  come."  She  was  run 
ning  on  eagerly  in  this  strain  until  she  saw  the  look 
of  pain  in  his  face — the  look  he  tried  so  hard  to 
conceal.  She  was  standing  straight  and  strong  and 
eager  before  him,  and  he  was  very  pale  under  the  tan. 

"I  can't,  Miss  Gray.  I'm  sorry,  you  know.  See! 
Where  there's  smoke  there's  fire — I  mean,  where 
there's  blood  there's  a  wound.  I'm  done  for,  in  other 
words." 

"Done  for?     Oh,  you're  not — not  going  to  die! 


206        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Are  you  hurt?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  Where 
upon  she  dropped  to  her  knees  at  his  side,  her  dark 
eyes  searching  his  intently,  despair  in  them  until  the 
winning  smile  struggled  back  into  his.  The  captives 
chuckled  audibly.  "What  can  I — what  shall  I  do? 
Oh,  why  don't  those  men  come!  It  must  be  noon 
or " 

"It's  barely  six  A.M.,  Miss  Gray.  Don't  worry. 
I'm  all  right.  A  cut  in  my  leg;  the  old  woman 
plugged  me.  I  can't  walk,  you  know — but " 

"And  you  carried  me  out  here  and  did  all  that  and 
never  said  a  word  about — oh,  how  good  and  brave 
and  noble  you  are!" 

When  Anderson  Crow  and  half  of  Tinkletown, 
routed  out  en  masse  by  Bud,  appeared  on  the  scene 
an  hour  or  two  later,  they  found  Wicker  Bonner 
stretched  out  on  a  mattress,  his  head  in  Rosalie's  lap. 
The  young  woman  held  his  revolver  in  her  hand,  and 
there  was  a  look  in  her  face  which  said  that  she  would 
shoot  any  one  who  came  to  molest  her  charge.  Two 
helpless  desperadoes  lay  cursing  in  the  corner  of  the 
tent. 

Anderson  Crow,  after  an  hour  of  deliberation  and 
explanation,  fell  upon  the  bound  and  helpless  bandits 
and  bravely  carted  the  whole  lot  to  the  town  "cala 
boose."  Wicker  Bonner  and  his  nurse  were  taken 
into  town,  and  the  news  of  the  rescue  went  flying  over 
the  county,  and  eventually  to  the  four  corners  of 
the  land,  for  Congressman  Bonner's  nephew  was  a 
person  of  prominence. 

Bonner,  as  he  passed  up  the  main  street  in  Peabody's 


Jack,  the  Giant  Killer  207 

sleigh  on  the  way  to  Anderson  Crow's  home,  was  the 
centre  of  attraction.  He  was  the  hero  of  the  hour, 
for  was  not  Rosalie  Gray  herself,  pale  and  ill  with 
torture,  his  most  devoted  slave?  What  else  could 
Tinkletown  do  but  pay  homage  when  it  saw  Bonner's 
head  against  her  shoulder  and  Anderson  Crow  shout 
ing  approval  from  the  bob-sled  that  carried  the  kid 
napers.  The  four  bandits,  two  of  them  much  the 
worse  for  the  night's  contact  with  Wicker  Bonner, 
were  bundled  into  the  lock-up,  a  sadly  morose  gang 
of  ghosts. 

"I  owe  you  a  thousand  dollars,"  said  Anderson  to 
Bonner  as  they  drew  up  in  front  of  the  marshal's 
home.  All  Tinkletown  was  there  to  see  how  Mrs. 
Crow  and  the  family  would  act  when  Rosalie  was 
restored  to  them.  The  yard  was  full  of  gaping  vil 
lagers,  and  there  was  a  diffident  cheer  when  Mrs. 
Crow  rushed  forth  and  fairly  dragged  Rosalie  from 
the  sleigh.  "Blootch"  Peabody  gallantly  interposed 
and  undertook  to  hand  the  girl  forth  with  the  grace 
of  a  Chesterfield.  But  Mrs.  Crow  had  her  way. 

"I'll  take  it  out  in  board  and  lodging,"  grinned 
Wicker  Bonner  to  Anderson  as  two  strong  men  lifted 
him  from  the  sleigh. 

"Where's  Bud?"  demanded  Anderson  after  the 
others  had  entered  the  house. 

"He  stayed  down  to  the  'calaboose'  to  guard  the 
prisoners,"  said  "Blootch."  "Nobody  could  find  the 
key  to  the  door  and  nobody  else  would  stay.  They 
ain't  locked  in,  but  Bud's  got  two  revolvers,  and  he 
says  they  can  only  escape  over  his  dead  body." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Tinkletown's  Convulsion 

ANDERSON  CROW  was  himself  once  more.  He  was 
twenty  years  younger  than  when  he  went  to  bed  the 
night  before.  His  joy  and  pride  had  reached  the 
bursting  point — dignity  alone  prevented  the  catas 
trophe. 

"What  do  you  expect  to  do  with  the  gang, 
Mr.  Crow?"  asked  Bonner,  reclining  with  amiable 
ease  in  the  marshal's  Morris  chair.  He  was  feeling 
very  comfortable,  despite  "Doc"  Smith's  stitches;  and 
he  could  not  help  acknowledging,  with  more  or  less  of 
a  glow  in  his  heart,  that  it  was  nice  to  play  hero  to 
such  a  heroine. 

"Well,  I'll  protect  'em,  of  course.  Nobody  c'n 
lynch  'em  while  I'm  marshal  of  this  town,"  Anderson 
said,  forgetful  of  the  fact  that  he  had  not  been  near 
the  jail,  where  Master  Bud  still  had  full  charge  of 
affairs,  keyless  but  determined.  "I'll  have  to  turn 
them  over  to  the  county  sheriff  to-day  er  to-morrow, 
I  reckon.  This  derned  old  calaboose  of  ourn  ain't 
any  too  safe.  That's  a  mighty  desperit  gang  we've 
captured.  I  cain't  remember  havin'  took  sech  a  mob 
before." 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you,  Mr.  Crow,  that  we  have 
captured  only  the  hirelings?  Their  employer,  who 
ever  he  or  she  may  be,  is  at  large  and  probably  laugh- 


Tinkleto'wn  s  Convulsion  209 

ing  at  us.  Isn't  there  some  way  in  which  we  can  fol 
low  the  case  up  and  land  the  leader?" 

"'y  Gosh,  you're  right,"  said  Anderson.  "I  thought 
of  that  this  mornin',  but  it  clean  skipped  my  mind  since 
then.  There's  where'  the  mistake  was  made,  Mr. 
Bonner.  It's  probably  too  late  now.  You'd  oughter 
thought  about  the  leader.  Seems  to  me " 

"Why,  Daddy  Crow,"  cried  Rosalie,  a  warm  flush 
in  her  cheeks  once  more,  "hasn't  Mr.  Bonner  done 
his  part?  Hasn't  he  taken  them  single-handed  and 
hasn't  he  saved  me  from  worse  than  death?" 

"I  ain't  castin'  any  insinyations  at  him,  Rosalie," 
retorted  Anderson,  very  sternly  for  him.  "How  can 
you  talk  like  that?" 

"I'm  not  offended,  Miss  Gray,"  laughed  Bonner. 
"We  all  make  mistakes.  It  has  just  occurred  to  me, 
however,  that  Mr.  Crow  may  still  be  able  to  find 
out  who  the  leader  is.  The  prisoners  can  be  pumped, 
I  dare  say." 

"You're  right  ag'in,  Mr.  Bonner.  It's  funny  how 
you  c'n  read  my  thoughts.  I  was  jest  goin'  down  to 
the  jail  to  put  'em  through  the  sweat  cell." 

"Sweat  cell?  You  mean  sweat  box,  Mr.  Crow,'* 
said  Bonner,  laughing  in  spite  of  himself. 

"No,  sir;  it's  a  cell.  We  couldn't  find  a  box  big 
enough.  I  use  the  cell  reserved  fer  women  prisoners. 
Mebby  some  day  the  town  board  will  put  in  a  reg'lar 
box,  but,  so  far,  the  cell  has  done  all  right.  I'll  be 
back  'bout  supper-time,  Eva.  You  take  keer  o' 
Rosalie.  Make  her  sleep  a  while  an'  I  guess  you'd 
better  dose  her  up  a  bit  with  quinine  an' " 


2 1  o       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"I  guess  I  know  what  to  give  her,  Anderson  Crow,'* 
resented  his  wife.  "Go  'long  with  you.  You'd 
oughter  been  lookin'  after  them  kidnapers  three 
hours  ago.  I  bet  Bud's  purty  nigh  wore  out  guardin' 
them.  He's  been  there  ever  sence  nine  o'clock,  an! 
it's  half-past  two  now." 

"Roscoe's  helpin'  him,"  muttered  Anderson, 
abashed. 

At  that  instant  there  came  a  rush  of  footsteps  across 
the  front  porch  and  in  burst  Ed  Higgins  and 
"Blootch"  Peabody,  fairly  gasping  with  excitement. 

"Hurry  up,  Anderson — down  to  the  jail,"  sput 
tered  the  former;  and  then  he  was  gone  like  the  wind. 
"Blootch,"  determined  to  miss  nothing,  whirled  to 
follow,  or  pass  him  if  possible.  He  had  time  to  shout 
over  his  shoulder  as  he  went  forth  without  closing  the 
door: 

"The  old  woman  has  lynched  herself!" 

It  would  now  be  superfluous  to  remark,  after  all  the 
convulsions  Tinkletown  had  experienced  inside  of 
twenty-four  hours,  that  the  populace  went  completely 
to  pieces  in  face  of  this  last  trying  experiment  of  Fate. 
With  one  accord  the  village  toppled  over  as  if  struck 
by  a  broadside  and  lay,  figuratively  speaking,  writh 
ing  in  its  own  gore.  Stupefaction  assailed  the  town. 
Then  one  by  one  the  minds  of  the  people  scrambled 
up  from  the  ashes,  slowly  but  surely,  only  to 
wonder  where  lightning  would  strike  next.  Not 
since  the  days  of  the  American  Revolution  had  the 
town  experienced  such  an  incessant  rush  of  incident. 
The  Judgment  Day  itself,  with  Gabriel's  clarion 


Tinkletowns  Convulsion  2 1 1 

blasts,  could  not  be  expected  to  surpass  this  product 
ive  hour  in  thrills. 

It  was  true  that  old  Maude  had  committed  suicide 
in  the  calaboose.  She  had  been  placed  on  a  cot  in 
the  office  of  the  prison  and  Dr.  Smith  had  been  sent 
for,  immediately  after  her  arrival;  but  he  was  mak 
ing  a  call  in  the  country.  Bud  Long,  supported  by 
half  a  dozen  boys  armed  with  Revolutionary  muskets, 
which  would  not  go  off  unless  carried,  stood  In  front 
of  the  little  jail  with  its  wooden  walls  and  iron  bars, 
guarding  the  prisoners  zealously.  The  calaboose  was 
built  to  hold  tramps  and  drunken  men,  but  not  for  the 
purpose  of  housing  desperadoes.  Even  as  the  heroic 
Bud  watched  with  persevering  faithfulness,  his 
charges  were  planning  to  knock  their  prison  to 
smithereens  and  at  the  proper  moment  escape  to  the 
woods  and  hills.  They  knew  the  grated  door  was 
unlocked,  but  they  imagined  the  place  to  be  com 
pletely  surrounded  by  vengeful  villagers,  who  would 
cut  them  down  like  rats  if  they  ventured  forth.  Had 
they  but  known  that  Bud  was  alone,  it  is  quite  likely 
they  would  have  sallied  forth  and  relieved  him  of  his 
guns,  spanked  him  soundly  and  then  ambled  off  un 
molested  to  the  country. 

All  the  morning  old  Maude  had  been  groaning  and 
swearing  in  the  office,  where  she  lay  unattended.  Bud 
was  telling  his  friends  how  he  had  knocked  her  down 
twice  in  the  cave,  after  she  had  shot  six  times  and 
slashed  at  him  with  her  dagger,  when  a  sudden  cessa 
tion  of  groans  from  the  interior  attracted  the  atten- 

o 

tion  of  all.     "Doc"  Smith  arrived  at  that  juncture 


212        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

and  found  the  boys  listening  intently  for  a  resumption 
of  the  picturesque  profanity.  It  was  some  time  be 
fore  the  crowd  became  large  enough  to  inspire  a  visit 
to  the  interior  of  the  calaboose.  As  became  his  dig 
nity,  Bud  led  the  way. 

The  old  woman,  unable  to  endure  the  pain  any 
longer,  and  knowing  full  well  that  her  days  were 
bound  to  end  in  prison,  had  managed,  in  some  way, 
to  hang  herself  from  a  window  bar  beside  her  bed, 
using  a  twisted  bed  sheet.  She  was  quite  dead  when 
"Doc"  made  the  examination.  A  committee  of  the 
\vhole  started  at  once  to  notify  Anderson  Crow.  For 
a  minute  it  looked  as  though  the  jail  would  be  left 
entirely  unguarded,  but  Bud  loyally  returned  to  his 
post,  reinforced  by  Roscoe  and  the  doctor. 

Upon  Mr.  Crow's  arrival  at  the  jail,  affairs  as 
sumed  some  aspect  of  order.  He  first  locked  the 
grate  doors,  thereby  keeping  the  fiery  David  from 
coming  out  to  see  his  mother  before  they  cut  her 
down.  A  messenger  was  sent  for  the  coroner  at 
Boggs  City,  and  then  the  big  body  was  released  from 
its  last  hanging  place. 

"Doggone,  but  this  is  a  busy  day  fer  me!"  said 
Anderson.  "I  won't  have  time  to  pump  them  fellers 
till  this  evenin'.  But  I  guess  they'll  keep.  What's 
that,  Blootch?" 

"I  was  just  goin'  to  ask  Bud  if  they're  still  in  there,"1 
said  Blootch. 

"Are  they,  Bud?"  asked  Anderson  in  quick  alarm. 

"Sure,"  replied  Bud  with  a  mighty  swelling  of  the 
chest.  Even  Blootch  envied  him. 


Tinkletown's  Convulsion  213 

"She's  been  dead  jest  an  hour  an'  seven  minutes," 
observed  Anderson,  gingerly  touching  the  dead 
woman's  wrist.  "Doggone,  I'm  glad  o'  one  thing!" 

"What's  that,  Anderson?" 

"We  won't  have  to  set  her  hip.     Saved  expense." 

"But  we'll  have  to  bury  her,  like  as  not,"  said  Isaac 
Porter. 

"Yes,"  said  Anderson  reflectively.  "She'll  have  to 
be  buried.  But — but —  '  and  here  his  face  light 
ened  up  in  relief — "not  fer  a  day  er  two;  so  what's 
the  use  worryin'." 

When  the  coroner  arrived,  soon  after  six  o'clock,  a 
jury  was  empanelled  and  witnesses  sworn.  In  ten  min 
utes  a  verdict  of  suicide  was  returned  and  the  coroner 
was  on  his  way  back  to  Boggs  City.  He  did  not  even 
know  that  a  hip  had  been  dislocated.  Anderson  in 
sisted  upon  a  post-mortem  examination,  but  was 
laughed  out  of  countenance  by  the  officious  M.D. 

"I  voted  fer  that  fool  last  November,"  said  Ander 
son  wrathfully,  as  the  coroner  drove  off,  "but  you  c'n 
kick  the  daylights  out  of  me  if  I  ever  do  it  ag'in. 
Look  out  there,  Bud !  What  in  thunder  are  you  doin' 
with  them  pistols?  Doggone,  ain't  you  got  no  sense? 
Pointin'  'em  around  that  way.  Why,  you're  liable 
to  shoot  somebody " 

"Aw,  them  ain't  pistols,"  scoffed  Bud,  his  mouth  full 
of  something.  "They're  bologny  sausages.  I  ain't 
had  nothin'«  to  eat  sence  last  night  and  I'm  hungry." 

"Well,  it's  dark  out  here,"  explained  Anderson,  sud 
denly  shuffling  into  the  jail.  "I  guess  I'll  put  them 
fellers  through  the  sweat  box." 


214        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"The  what?"  demanded  George  Ray. 

"The  sweat-box —  b-o-x,  box.     Cain't  you  hear?" 

"I  thought  you  used  a  cell." 

"Thunderation,  no !  Nobody  but  country  Jakes  call 
it  a  cell,"  said  Anderson  in  fine  scorn. 

The  three  prisoners  scowled  at  him  so  fiercely  and 
snarled  so  vindictively  when  they  asked  him  if  they 
were  to  be  starved  to  death,  that  poor  Anderson  hur 
ried  home  and  commanded  his  wife  to  pack  ua  baskit 
of  bread  and  butter  an'  things  fer  the  prisoners."  It 
was  nine  o'clock  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  to 
venture  back  to  the  calaboose  with  his  basket.  He 
spent  the  intervening  hours  in  telling  Rosalie  and 
Bonner  about  the  shocking  incident  at  the  jail  and  in 
absorbing  advice  from  the  clear-headed  young  man 
from  Boston. 

"I'd  like  to  go  with  you  to  see  those  fellows,  Mr. 
Crow,"  was  Bonner's  rueful  lament.  "But  the  doc 
tor  says  I  must  be  quiet  until  this  confounded  thing 
heals  a  bit.  Together,  I  think  we  could  bluff  the 
whole  story  out  of  those  scoundrels." 

"Oh,  never  you  fear,"  said  the  marshal;  "I'll  learn 
all  there  is  to  be  learnt.  You  jest  ask  Alf  Reesling 
what  kind  of  a  pumper  I  am." 

"Who  is  Alf  Reesling?" 

"Ain't  you  heerd  of  him  in  Boston?  Why,  every 
temperance  lecturer  that  comes  here  says  he's  the 
biggest  drunkard  in  the  world.  I  supposed  his  repu 
tation  had  got  to  Boston  by  this  time.  He's  been 
sober  only  once  in  twenty-five  years." 

"Is  it  possible?" 


Tinkletown's  Convulsion  2 1 5 

"That  was  when  his  wife  died.  He  said  he  felt 
so  good  it  wasn't  necessary  to  get  drunk.  Well,  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  it  when  I  come  back.  Don't  worry 
no  more,  Rosalie.  I'll  find  out  who's  back  of  this 
business  an'  then  we'll  know  all  about  you.  It's  a 
long  lane  that  has  no  turn." 

"Them  prisoners  must  be  mighty  near  starved  to 
death  by  this  time,  Anderson,"  warned  Mrs.  Crow. 

"Doggone,  that's  so !"  he  cried,  and  hustled  out  into 
the  night. 

The  calaboose  was  almost  totally  dark — quite  so, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  single  lamp  that  burned  in  the 
office  where  the  body  of  the  old  woman  was  lying. 
Two  or  three  timid  citizens  stood  afar  off,  in  front 
of  Thompson's  feed  yard,  looking  with  awe  upon  the 
dungeon  keep.  Anderson's  footsteps  grew  slower 
and  more  halting  as  they  approached  the  entrance  to 
the  forbidding  square  of  black.  The  snow  creaked 
resoundingly  under  his  heels  and  the  chill  wind 
nipped  his  muffless  ears  with  a  spitefulness  that  an 
noyed.  In  fact,  he  became  so  incensed,  that  he  set  his 
basket  down  and  slapped  his  ears  vigorously  for  some 
minutes  before  resuming  his  slow  progress.  He  hated 
the  thought  of  going  in  where  the  dead  woman  lay. 

Suddenly  he  made  up  his  mind  that  a  confession 
from  the  men  would  be  worthless  unless  he  had  ear 
witnesses  to  substantiate  it  in  court.  Without  further 
deliberation,  he  retraced  his  steps  hurriedly  to  Lam- 
son's  store,  where,  after  half  an  hour's  conversation 
on  the  topics  of  the  day,  he  deputised  the  entire  crowd 
to  accompany  him  to  the  jail. 


2i 6        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Where's  Bud?"  he  demanded  sharply. 

"Home  in  bed,  poor  child,"  said  old  Mr.  Borton. 

"Well,  doggone  his  ornery  hide,  why  ain't  he  here 
to — "  began  Anderson,  but  checked  himself  in  time 
to  prevent  the  crowd  from  seeing  that  he  expected 
Bud  to  act  as  leader  in  the  expedition.  "I  wanted  him 
to  jot  down  notes,"  he  substituted.  Editor  Squires 
volunteered  to  act  as  secretary,  prompter,  interpreter, 
and  everything  else  that  his  scoffing  tongue  could  utter. 

"Well,  go  ahead,  then,"  said  Anderson,  pushing  him 
forward.  Harry  led  the  party  down  the  dark  street 
with  more  rapidity  than  seemed  necessary;  few  in  the 
crowd  could  keep  pace  with  him.  A  majority  fell 
hopelessly  behind,  in  fact. 

Straight  into  the  office  walked  Harry,  closely  fol 
lowed  by  Blootch  and  the  marshal.  Maude,  looking 
like  a  monument  of  sheets,  still  occupied  the  centre  of 
the  floor.  Without  a  word,  the  party  filed  past  the 
gruesome,  silent  thing  and  into  the  jail  corridor.  It 
was  as  dark  as  Erebus  in  the  barred  section  of  the 
prison;  a  cold  draft  of  air  flew  into  the  faces  of  the 
visitors. 

"Come  here,  you  fellers!"  called  Anderson  bravely 
into  the  darkness;  but  there  was  no  response  from 
the  prisoners. 

For  the  very  good  reason  that  some  hours  earlier 
they  had  calmly  removed  a  window  from  its  moor 
ings  and  by  this  time  were  much  too  far  away  to  an 
swer  questions. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

The  Flight  of  the  Kidnapers 

SEARCHING  parties  were  organised  and  sent  out  to 
scour  the  country,  late  as  it  was.  Swift  riders  gave 
the  alarm  along  every  roadway,  and  the  station 
agent  telegraphed  the  news  into  every  section  of  the 
land.  At  Boggs  City,  the  sheriff,  berating  Anderson 
Crow  for  a  fool  and  Tinkletown  for  an  open-air 
lunatic  asylum,  sent  his  deputies  down  to  assist  in 
the  pursuit.  The  marshal  himself  undertook  to  lead 
each  separate  and  distinct  posse.  He  was  so  over 
whelmed  by  the  magnitude  of  his  misfortune  that  it 
is  no  wonder  his  brain  whirled  widely  enough  to  en 
compass  the  whole  enterprise. 

Be  it  said  to  the  credit  of  Tinkletown,  her  citizens 
made  every  reasonable  effort  to  recapture  the  men. 
The  few  hundred  able-bodied  men  of  the  town  ral 
lied  to  the  support  of  their  marshal  and  the  law,  and 
there  was  not  one  who  refused  to  turn  out  in  the 
cold  night  air  for  a  sweeping  search  of  the  woods 
and  fields. 

Rosalie,  who  had  been  awakened  early  in  the  even 
ing  by  Mr.  Crow's  noisy  preparations  for  the  pur 
suit,  came  downstairs,  and  instantly  lost  all  desire 
to  sleep.  Bonner  was  lying  on  a  couch  in  the  "sitting- 
room,"  which  now  served  as  a  temporary  bed 
chamber. 


2 1 8        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"If  you'll  just  hand  me  those  revolvers,  Mr.  Crow," 
said  he,  indicating  the  two  big  automatics  he  had 
taken  from  Davy  and  Bill,  "I'll  stand  guard  over 
the  house  as  best  I  can  while  you're  away." 

"Stand  guard?  What  fer?  Nobody's  goin'  to 
steal  the  house." 

"We  should  not  forget  that  these  same  rascals  may 
take  it  into  their  heads  to  double  on  their  tracks  and 
try  to  carry  Miss  Gray  away  again.  With  her  in 
their  possession  they'll  receive  their  pay;  without  her 
their  work  will  have  been  for  nothing.  It  is  a  des 
perate  crowd,  and  they  may  think  the  plan  at  least 
worth  trying." 

Rosalie's  grateful,  beaming  glance  sent  a  quiver 
that  was  not  of  pain  through  Bonner's  frame. 

"Don't  worry  about  that,"  said  the  marshal. 
"We'll  have  'em  shot  to  pieces  inside  of  an  hour  an' 
a  half." 

"Anderson,  I  want  you  to  be  very  careful  with  that 
horse  pistol,"  said  his  wife  nervously.  "It  ain't  been 
shot  off  sence  the  war,  an'  like  as  not  it'll  kill  you 
from  behind." 

"Gosh  blast  it,  Eva !"  roared  Anderson,  "don't  you 
suppose  I  know  which  end  to  shoot  with?"  And 
away  he  rushed  in  great  dudgeon. 

Edna  Crow  sat  at  the  front  window,  keeping  watch 
for  hours.  She  reported  to  the  other  members  of 
the  household  as  each  scurrying  band  of  searchers 
passed  the  place.  Bonner  commanded  Rosalie  to 
keep  away  from  the  windows,  fearing  a  shot  from 
the  outside.  From  time  to  time  Roscoe  replenished 


The  Flight  of  the  Kidnapers  2 1 9 

the  big  blaze  in  the  fireplace.  It  was  cosey  in  the  old- 
fashioned  sitting-room,  even  though  the  strain  upon 
its  occupants  was  trying  in  the  extreme. 

Great  excitement  came  to  them  when  the  figure  of 
a  man  was  seen  to  drop  to  the  walk  near  the  front 
gate.  At  first  it  was  feared  that  one  of  the  bandits, 
injured  by  pursuers,  had  fallen  to  die,  but  the  mourn 
ful  calls  for  help  that  soon  came  from  the  sidewalk 
were  more  or  less  reassuring.  The  prostrate  figure 
had  a  queer  habit  from  time  to  time  of  raising  itself 
high  enough  to  peer  between  the  pickets  of  the  fence, 
and  each  succeeding  shout  seemed  more  vigorous  than 
the  others.  Finally  they  became  impatient,  and  then 
full  of  wrath.  It  was  evident  that  the  stranger  re 
sented  the  inhospitality  of  the  house. 

"Who  are  you?"  called  Edna,  opening  the  window 
ever  so  slightly.  Whereupon  the  man  at  the  gate 
sank  to  the  ground  and  groaned  with  splendid  misery. 

"It's  me,"  he  replied. 

"Who's  me?" 

"  'Rast— 'Rast  Little.     I  think  I'm  dyin'." 

There  was  a  hurried  consultation  indoors,  and  then 
Roscoe  bravely  ventured  out  to  the  sidewalk. 

"Are  you  shot,  'Rast?"  he  asked  in  trembling  tones. 

"No;  I'm  just  wounded.     Is  Rosalie  in  there?" 

"Yep.     She's- 

"I  guess  I'll  go  in,  then.  Dern  it!  It's  a  long  walk 
from  our  house  over  here.  I  guess  I'll  stay  all  night. 
If  I  don't  get  better  to-morrow  I'll  have  to  stay 
longer.  I  ought  to  be  nursed,  too." 

"Rosalie's  playin'  nurse   fer   Mr.   Bonner,"  volun- 


22O       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

teered  Roscoe,  still  blocking  the  gate  through  which 
'Rast  was  trying  to  wedge  himself. 

"Mr.  who?" 

"Bonner." 

"Well,"  said  'Rast  after  a  moment's  consideration, 
"he  ought  to  be  moved  to  a  hospital.  Lemme  lean 
on  you,  Roscoe.  I  can't  hardly  walk,  my  arm  hurts 
so." 

Mr.  Little,  with  his  bandages  and  his  hobble,  had 
joined  in  the  expedition,  and  was  not  to  be  deterred 
until  faintness  overcame  him  and  he  dropped  by  the 
wayside.  He  was  taken  in  and  given  a  warm  chair 
before  the  fire.  One  long  look  at  Bonner  and  the 
newcomer  lapsed  into  a  stubborn  pout.  He  groaned 
occasionally  and  made  much  ado  over  his  condition, 
but  sourly  resented  any  approach  at  sympathy. 
Finally  he  fell  asleep  in  the  chair,  his  last  speech 
being  to  the  effect  that  he  was  going  home  early  in  the 
morning  if  he  had  to  drag  himself  every  foot  of  the 
way.  Plainly,  'Rast  had  forgotten  Miss  Banks  in  the 
sudden  revival  of  affection  for  Rosalie  Gray.  The  course 
of  true  love  did  not  run  smoothly  in  Tinkletown. 

The  searchers  straggled  in  empty  handed.  Early 
morning  found  most  of  them  asleep  at  their  homes, 
tucked  away  by  thankful  wives,  and  with  the  promises 
of  late  breakfasts.  The  next  day  business  was  slow 
in  asserting  its  claim  upon  public  attention.  Mascu 
line  Tinkletown  dozed  while  femininity  chattered  to 
its  heart's  content.  There  was  much  to  talk  about 
and  more  to  anticipate.  The  officials  in  all  counties 
contiguous  had  out  their  dragnets,  and  word  was  ex- 


The  Flight  of  the  Kidnapers  221 

pected  at  any  time  that  the  fugitives  had  fallen  into 
their  hands. 

But  not  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  any  day,  in  fact, 
did  news  come  of  their  capture,  so  Tinkletown  was 
obliged  to  settle  back  into  a  state  of  tranquility.  Some 
little  interest  was  aroused  when  the  town  board  or 
dered  the  calaboose  repaired,  and  there  was  a  ripple 
of  excitement  attached  to  the  funeral  of  the  only  kid 
naper  in  captivity.  It  was  necessary  to  postpone  the 
oyster  supper  at  the  Methodist  Church,  but  there  was 
some  consolation  in  the  knowledge  that  it  would  soon 
be  summer-time  and  the  benighted  Africans  would 
not  need  the  money  for  winter  clothes.  The  recep 
tion  at  the  minister's  house  was. a  fizzle.  He  was 
warned  in  time,  however,  and  it  was  his  own  fault 
that  he  received  no  more  than  a  jug  of  vinegar,  two 
loaves  of  bread  and  a  pound  of  honey  as  the  result  of 
his  expectations.  It  was  the  first  time  that  a  "pound" 
party  had  proven  a  losing  enterprise. 

Anderson  Crow  maintained  a  relentless  search  for 
the  desperadoes.  He  refused  to  accept  Wicker 
Bonner's  theory  that  they  were  safe  in  the  city  of 
New  York.  It  was  his  own  opinion  that  they  were 
still  in  the  neighbourhood,  waiting  for  a  chance  to 
exhume  the  body  of  Davy's  mother  and  make  off 
with  it. 

"Don't  try  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Bonner,  that  even  a  raskil 
like  him  hasn't  any  love  fer  his  mother,"  he  con 
tended.  "Davy  may  not  be  much  of  a  model,  but  he 
had  a  feelin'  fer  the  woman  who  bore  him,  an'  don't 
you  fergit  it." 


222        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Why,  Daddy  Crow,  he  was  the  most  heartless 
brute  in  the  world!"  cried  Rosalie.  "I've  seen  him 
knock  her  down  more  than  once — and  kick  her,  too." 

"A  slip  of  the  memory,  that's  all.  He  was  prob 
ably  thinkin'  of  his  wife,  if  he  has  one." 

At  a  public  meeting  the  town  board  was  condemned 
for  its  failure  to  strengthen  the  jail  at  the  time  Ander 
son  made  his  demand  three  years  before. 

"What's  the  use  in  me  catchin'  thieves,  and  so  forth, 
if  the  jail  won't  hold  'em?"  Anderson  declared.  "I 
cain't  afford  to  waste  time  in  runnin'  desperite  char 
acters  down  if  the  town  board  ain't  goin'  to  obstruct 
'em  from  gittin'  away  as  soon  as  the  sun  sits.  What's 
the  use,  I'd  like  to  know?  Where's  the  justice?  I 
don't  want  it  to  git  noised  aroun'  that  the  on'y  way 
we  c'n  hold  a  prisoner  is  to  have  him  commit  suicide 
as  soon  as  he's  arrested.  Fer  two  cents  I'd  resign 
right  now." 

Of  course  no  one  would  hear  to  that.  As  a  result, 
nearly  five  hundred  dollars  was  voted  from  the  cor 
poration  funds  to  strengthen  and  modernise  the  "cala 
boose."  It  was  the  sense  of  the  meeting  that  a  "sweat 
box"  should  be  installed  under  Mr.  Crow's  super 
vision,  and  that  the  marshal's  salary  should  be  in 
creased  fifty  dollars  a  year.  After  the  adoption  of 
this  popular  resolution  Mr.  Crow  arose  and  solemnly 
informed  the  people  that  their  faith  in  him  was  not 
misplaced.  He  threw  the  meeting  into  a  state  of 
great  excitement  by  announcing  that  the  kidnapers 
would  soon  be  in  the  toils  once  more.  In  response  to 
eager  queries  he  merely  stated  that  he  had  a  valuable 


"LEFT     THE     YOUNG    MAN     TO     THE     CARE     OF     AN     EXCELLENT 
NURSE  " 


The  Flight  of  the  Kidnapers  223 

clew,  which  could  not  be  divulged  without  detriment 

to  the  cause.     Everybody  went  home  that  night  with 

the  assurance  that  the  fugitives  would  soon  be  taken. 
Anderson  promised  the  town  board  that  he  would  not 

take  them  until  the  jail  was  repaired. 

It  was  almost  a  fortnight  before  Wicker  Bonner 
was  able  to  walk  about  with  crutches.  The  wound  in 
his  leg  was  an  ugly  one  and  healed  slowly.  His  uncle, 
the  Congressman,  sent  up  a  surgeon  from  New  York, 
but  that  worthy  approved  of  "Doc"  Smith's  methods, 
and  abruptly  left  the  young  man  to  the  care  of  an 
excellent  nurse,  Rosalie  Gray.  Congressman  Bon- 
ner's  servants  came  over  every  day  or  two  with  books, 
newspapers,  sweetmeats,  and  fresh  supplies  from  the 
city,  but  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  get  any  satis 
faction  from  the  young  man  in  reply  to  their  in 
quiries  as  to  when  he  expected  to  return  to  the  big 
house  across  the  river.  Bonner  was  beginning  to  hate 
the  thought  of  giving  up  Rosalie's  readings,  her  min 
istrations,  and  the  no  uncertain  development  of  his 
own  opinions  as  to  her  personal  attractiveness. 

"I  don't  know  when  I'll  be  able  to  walk,  Watkins," 
he  said  to  the  caretaker.  "I'm  afraid  my  heart  is 
affected." 

Bonner's  enforced  presence  at  Anderson  Crow's 
home  was  the  source  of  extreme  annoyance  to  the 
young  men  of  the  town.  "Blootch"  Peabody  created 
a  frightful  scandal  by  getting  boiling  drunk  toward 
the  end  of  the  week,  so  great  was  his  dejection.  As 
it  was  his  first  real  spree,  he  did  not  recover  from 
the  effect  for  three  days.  He  then  took  the  pledge, 


224        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

and  talked  about 
the  evils  of  strong 
drink  with  so 
much  feeling  at 
prayer  meeting 
that  the  women  of 
the  town  inaugu 
rated  a  movement 
to  stop  the  sale  of 
liquor  in  the  town. 
AsPeabody's  drug 
store  was  the  only 
place  where  whis 
key  could  be  ob 
tained,  "Blootch" 
soon  saw  the  error 
of  his  ways  and 
came  down  from  his  pedestal  to  mend  them. 

Bonner  was  a  friend  in  need  to  Anderson  Crow. 
The  two  were  in  consultation  half  of  the  time,  and 
the  young  man's  opinions  were  not  to  be  disregarded. 
He  advanced  a  theory  concerning  the  motives  of  the 
leader  in  the  plot  to  send  Rosalie  into  an  exile  from 
which  she  was  not  expected  to  return.  It  was  his 
belief  that  the  person  who  abandoned  her  as  a  babe 
was  actuated  by  the  desire  to  possess  a  fortune  which 
should  have  been  the  child's.  The  conditions  attend 
ing  the  final  disposition  of  this  fortune  doubtless  were 
such  as  to  make  it  unwise  to  destroy  the  girl's  life. 
The  plotter,  whatever  his  or  her  relation  to  the  child 
may  have  been,  must  have  felt  that  a  time  might  come 


The  Flight  of  the  Kidnapers  225 

when  the  existence  of  the  real  heiress  would  be  neces 
sary.  Either  such  a  fear  was  the  inspiration  or  the 
relationship  was  so  dear  that  the  heart  of  the  arch- 
plotter  was  full  of  love  for  the  innocent  victim. 

"Who  is  to  say,  Miss  Gray,"  said  Bonner  one  night 
as  they  sat  before  the  fire,  "that  the  woman  who  left 
you  with  Mr.  Crow  was  not  your  own  mother?  Sup 
pose  that  a  vast  estate  was  to  be  yours  in  trust  after 
the  death  of  some  rich  relative,  say  grandparent.  It 
would  naturally  mean  that  some  one  else  resented 
this  bequest,  and  probably  with  some  justice.  The 
property  was  to  become  your  own  when  you  attained 
a  certain  age,  let  us  say.  Don't  you  see  that  the  day 
would  rob  the  disinherited  person  of  every  hope  to 
retain  the  fortune?  Even  a  mother  might  be 
tempted,  for  ambitious  reasons,  to  go  to  extreme 
measures  to  secure  the  fortune  for  herself.  Or  she 
might  have  been  influenced  by  a  will  stronger  than 
her  own — the  will  of  an  unscrupulous  man.  There 
are  many  contingencies,  all  probable,  as  you  choose 
to  analyse  them." 

"But  why  should  this  person  wish  to  banish  me 
from  the  country  altogether  ?  I  am  no  more  danger 
ous  here  than  I  would  be  anywhere  in  Europe.  And 
then  think  of  the  means  they  would  have  employed 
to  get  me  away  from  Tinkletown.  Have  I  not  been 
lost  to  the  world  for  years?  Why " 

"True;  but  I  am  quite  convinced,  and  I  think  Mr. 
Crow  agrees  with  me,  that  the  recent  move  was  made 
necessary  by  the  demands  of  one  whose  heart  is  not 
interested,  but  whose  hand  wields  the  sceptre  of  power 


226        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

over  the  love  which  tries  to  shield  you.  Any  other 
would  have  cut  off  your  life  at  the  beginning." 

"That's  my  idee,"  agreed  Anderson  solemnly. 

"I  don't  want  the  fortune!"  cried  Rosalie.  "I  am 
happy  here!  Why  can't  they  let  me  alone?" 

"I  tell  you,  Miss  Gray,  unless  something  happens 
to  prevent  it,  that  woman  will  some  day  give  you 
back  your  own — your  fortune  and  your  name." 

"I  can't  believe  it,  Mr.  Bonner.  "It  is  too  much 
like  a  dream  to  me." 

"Well,  doggone  it,  Rosalie,  dreams  don't  last  for 
ever!"  broke  in  Anderson  Crow.  "You've  got  to 
wake  up  some  time,  don't  you  see?" 


CHAPTER  XXV 

As  the  Heart  Grows  Older 

BONNER'S  eagerness  to  begin  probing  into  the  mys 
tery  grew  as  his  strength  came  back  to  him.  He 
volunteered  to  interest  his  uncle  in  the  matter,  and 
through  him  to  begin  a  systematic  effort  to  unravel  the 
tangled  ends  of  Rosalie's  life.  Money  was  not  to  be 
spared;  time  and  intelligence  were  to  be  devoted  to  the 
cause.  He  knew  that  Rosalie  was  in  reality  a  creature 
of  good  birth  and  worthy  of  the  name  that  any  man 
might  seek  to  bestow  upon  her — a  name  given  in  love 
by  a  man  to  the  woman  who  would  share  it  with  him 
forever. 

The  days  and  nights  were  teaching  him  the  sacred- 
ness  of  a  growing  attachment.  He  was  not  closing 
his  eyes  to  the  truth.  It  was  quite  as  impossible  for 
big,  worldly  Wick  Bonner  to  be  near  her  and  not  fall 
a  victim,  as  it  was  for  the  crude,  humble  youth  of 
Tinkletown.  His  heart  was  just  as  fragile  as  theirs 
when  it  bared  itself  to  her  attack.  Her  beauty  at 
tracted  him,  her  natural  refinement  of  character  ap 
pealed  to  him;  her  pureness,  her  tenderness,  her  good 
ness,  wrought  havoc  with  his  impressions.  Fresh, 
bright,  as  clear-headed  as  the  June  sunshine,  she  was 
a  revelation  to  him — to  Bonner,  who  had  known  her 
sex  in  all  its  environments.  His  heart  was  full  of 
her,  day  and  night;  for  day  and  night  he  was  wonder- 


228        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

ing  whether  she  could  care  for  him  as  he  knew  he 
was  coming  to  care  for  her. 

One  day  he  received  a  telegram.  It  was  from  his 
mother  and  his  sister,  who  had  just  reached  Boston 
from  Bermuda,  and  it  carried  the  brief  though  em 
phatic  information  that  they  were  starting  to  Tinkle- 
town  to  nurse  and  care  for  him.  Bonner  was  thrown 
into  a  panic.  He  realised  in  the  instant  that  it  would 
be  impossible  for  them  to  come  to  Mr.  Crow's  home, 
and  he  knew  they  could  not  be  deceived  as  to  his 
real  condition.  His  mother  would  naturally  insist 
upon  his  going  at  once  to  Bonner  Place,  across  the 
river,  and  on  to  Boston  as  soon  as  he  was  able;  his 
clever  sister  would  see  through  his  motives  like  a  flash 
of  lightning.  Young  Mr.  Bonner  loved  them,  but  he 
was  distinctly  bored  by%  the  prospect  of  their  coming. 
In  some  haste  and  confusion,  he  sent  for  "Doc" 
Smith. 

"Doctor,  how  soon  will  I  be  able  to  navigate?"  he 
asked  anxiously. 

"Right  now." 

"You  don't  say  so !    I  don't  feel  strong,  you  know." 

"Well,  your  leg's  doing  well  and  all  danger  is  past. 
Of  course,  you  won't  be  as  spry  as  usual  for  some 
time,  and  you  can't  walk  without  crutches,  but  I  don't 
see  any  sense  in  your  loafiing  around  here  on  that  ac 
count.  You'd  be  safe  to  go  at  any  time,  Mr.  Bonner." 

"Look  here,  doctor,  I'm  afraid  to  change  doctors. 
You've  handled  this  case  mighty  well,  and  if  I  went 
to  some  other  chap,  he  might  undo  it  all.  I've  made 
up  my  mind  to  have  you  look  out  for  me  until  this 


As  the  Heart  Grows  Older  229 

wound  is  completely  healed.  That's  all  right,  now. 
I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  I'll  take  no  chances. 
How  long  will  it  be  until  it  is  completely  healed?" 

"A  couple  of  weeks,  I  suppose." 

"Well,  I'll  stay  right  here  and  have  you  look  at  it 
every  day.  It's  too  serious  a  matter  for  me  to  trifle 
with.  By  the  way,  my  mother  is  coming  up,  and  I 
dare  say  she'll  want  me  to  go  to  Boston.  Our  family 
doctor  is  an  old  fossil  and  I  don't  like  to  trust  him 
with  this  thing.  You'll  be  doing  me  a  favour,  doc 
tor,  if  you  keep  me  here  until  I'm  thoroughly  well. 
I  intend  to  tell  my  mother  that  it  will  not  be  wise  to 
move  me  until  all  danger  of  blood  poisoning  is  past." 

"Blood  poisoning?     There's  no  danger  now,  sir." 

"You  never  can  tell,"  said  Bonner  sagely. 

"But  I'd  be  a  perfect  fool,  Mr.  Bonner,  if 
there  were  still  danger  of  that,"  complained  the 
doctor.  "What  sort  of  a  doctor  would  they  consider 
me?" 

"They'd  certainly  give  you  credit  for  being  careful, 
and  that's  what  appeals  to  a  mother,  you  know,"  said 
Bonner  still  more  sagely.  "Besides,  it's  my  leg,  doc 
tor,  and  I'll  have  it  treated  my  way.  I  think  a  couple 
of  weeks  more  under  your  care  will  put  me  straight. 
Mother  has  to  consider  me,  that's  all.  I  wish  you'd 
stop  in  to-morrow  and  change  these  bandages, 
doctor;  if  you  don't  mind 

"Doc"  Smith  was  not  slow.  He  saw  more  than 
Bonner  thought,  so  he  winked  to  himself  as  he 
crossed  over  to  his  office.  At  the  corner  he  met 
Anderson  Crow. 


230        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Say,  Anderson,"  he  said,  half  chuckling,  "that 
young  Bonner  has  had  a  relapse." 

"Thunderation !" 

"He  can't  be  moved  for  a  week  or  two." 

"Will  you  have  to  cut  it  off?" 

uThe  leg?" 

"Certainly.  That's  the  only  thing  that  pains  him,, 
ain't  it?" 


"I  think  not.  I'm  going  to  put  his  heart  in  a  sling," 
said  Smith,  laughing  heartily  at  what  he  thought 
would  be  taken  as  a  brilliant  piece  of  jesting.  But  he 
erred.  Anderson  went  home  in  a  great  flurry  and 
privately  cautioned  every  member  of  the  household, 
including  Rosalie,  to  treat  Bonner  with  every  con 
sideration,  as  his  heart  was  weak  and  liable  to  give 
him  great  trouble.  Above  all,  he  cautioned  them 
to  keep  the  distressing  news  from  Bonner.  It  would 
discourage  him  mightily.  For  a  full  week  Anderson 
watched  Bonner  with  anxious  eyes,  writhing  every 


As  the  Heart  Grows  Older  231 

time  the  big  fellow  exerted  himself,  groaning  when 
he  gave  vent  to  his  hearty  laugh. 

"Have  you  heard  anything?"  asked  Bonner  with 
faithful  regularity  when  Anderson  came  home  each 
night.  He  referred  to  the  chase  for  the  fugitives. 

"Nothin'  worth  while,"  replied  Anderson  dismally. 
"Uncle  Jiminy  Borton  had  a  letter  from  Albany  to 
day,  an'  his  son-in-law  said  three  strange  men  had 
been  seen  in  the  Albany  depot  the  other  day.  I  had 
Uncle  Jiminy  write  an'  ast  him  if  he  had  seen  any 
body  answerin'  the  description,  you  know.  But  the 
three  men  he  spoke  of  took  a  train  for  New  York, 
so  I  suppose  they're  lost  by  this  time.  It's  the  most 
bafflin'  case  I  ever  worked  on." 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  the  real  leader  was 
in  this  neighbourhood  at  the  time?  In  Boggs  City, 
let  us  say.  According  to  Rosa — Miss  Gray's  story, 
the  man  Sam  went  out  nightly  for  instructions.  Well, 
he  either  went  to  Boggs  City  or  to  a  meeting  place 
agreed  upon  between  him  and  his  superior.  It  is 
possible  that  he  saw  this  person  on  the  very  night  of 
my  own  adventure.  Now,  the  thing  for  us  to  do 
is  to  find  out  if  a  stranger  was  seen  in  these  parts 
on  that  night.  The  hotel  registers  in  Boggs  City 
may  give  us  a  clew.  If  you  don't  mind,  Mr.  Crow, 
I'll  have  this  New  York  detective,  who  is  coming  up 
to-morrow,  take  a  look  into  this  phase  of  the  case. 
It  won't  interfere  with  your  plans,  will  it?"  asked 
Bonner,  always  considerate  of  the  feelings  of  the 
good-hearted,  simple-minded  old  marshal. 

"Not  at  all,  an'  I'll  help  him  all  I  can,  sir,"   re- 


232        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

sponded  Anderson  magnanimously.  "Here,  Eva, 
here's  a  letter  fer  Rosalie.  It's  the  second  she's  had 
from  New  York  in  three  days." 

"It's  from  Miss  Banks.  They  correspond,  Ander 
son,"  said  Mrs.  Crow. 

"And  say,  Eva,  I've  decided  on  one  thing.  We've 
got  to  calculate  on  gittin'  along  without  that  thou 
sand  dollars  after  this." 

"Why,  An— der— son  Crow!" 

"Yep.  We're  goin'  to  find  her  folks,  no  matter  if 
we  do  have  to  give  up  the  thousand.  It's  no  more'n 
right.  She'll  be  twenty-one  in  March,  an'  I'll  have 
to  settle  the  guardeenship  business  anyhow.  But, 
doggone  it,  Mr.  Bonner,  she  says  she  won't  take  the 
money  we've  saved  fer  her." 

"She  has  told  me  as  much,  Mr.  Crow.  I  think  she's 
partly  right.  If  she  takes  my  advice  she  will  divide 
it  with  you.  You  are  entitled  to  all  of  it,  you  know 
— it  was  to  be  your  pay — and  she  will  not  listen  to 
your  plan  to  give  all  of  it  to  her.  Still,  I  feel  that 
she  should  not  be  penniless  at  this  time.  She  may 
never  need  it — she  certainly  will  not  as  long  as  you 
are  alive — but  it  seems  a  wise  thing  for  her  to  be  pro 
tected  against  emergencies.  But  I  dare  say  you  can 
arrange  that  between  yourselves.  I  have  no  right 
to  interfere.  Was  there  any  mail  for  me?" 

"Yep.  I  almost  fergot  to  fork  it  over.  Here's  one 
from  your  mother,  I  figger.  This  is  from  your  sister, 
an'  here's  one  from  your — your  sweetheart,  I  reckon. 
I  deduce  all  this  by  sizin'  up  the — "  and  he  went  on 
to  tell  how  he  reached  his  conclusions,  all  of  which 


233 

were  wrong.  They  were  invitations  to  social  affairs 
in  Boston.  "But  I  got  somethin'  important  to  tell 
you,  Mr.  Bonner.  I  think  a  trap  is  bein'  set  fer  me 
by  the  desperadoes  we're  after.  I  guess  I'm  gittin' 
too  hot  on  their  trail.  I  had  an  ananymous  letter 
to-day." 
"A  what?" 

"Ananymous  letter.  Didn't  you  ever  hear  of  one? 
This  one  was  writ  fer  the  express  purpose  of  lurin' 
me  into  a  trap.  They  want  to  git  me  out  of  the  way. 

But  I'll  fool  'em. 
I'll  not  pay  any  at 
tention  to  it." 

"Goodness,  Ander 
son,  I  bet  you'll  be 
assassinated  yet!" 
cried  his  poor  wife. 
"I  wish  you'd  give 
up  chasin'  people 
down." 

"May  I  have  a 
look  at  the  letter, 
Mr.  Crow?"  asked 
Bonner.  Anderson  stealthily  drew  the  square  en 
velope  from  his  inside  pocket  and  passed  it  over. 

"They've  got  to  git  up  purty  early  to  ketch  me 
asleep,"  he  said  proudly.  Bonner  drew  the  enclosure 
from  the  envelope.  As  he  read,  his  eyes  twinkled  and 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  twitched,  but  his  face  was 
politely  sober  as  he  handed  the  missive  back  to  the 
marshal.  "Looks  like  a  trap,  don't  it?"  said  Ander- 


234        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

son.  "You  see  there  ain't  no  signature.  The  raskils 
were  afraid  to  sign  a  name." 

"I  wouldn't  say  anything  to  Miss  Gray  about  this 
if  I  were  you,  Mr.  Crow.  It  might  disturb  her,  you 
know,"  said  Bonner. 

"That  means  you,  too,  Eva,"  commanded  Anderson 
in  turn.  "Don't  worry  the  girl.  She  mustn't  know 
anything  about  this." 

"I  don't  think  it's  a  trap,"  remarked  Eva  as  she 
finished  reading  the  missive.  Bonner  took  this  oppor 
tunity  to  laugh  heartily.  He  had  held  it  back  as  long 
as  possible.  What  Anderson  described  as  an  "anany- 
mous"  letter  was  nothing  more  than  a  polite,  formal 
invitation  to  attend  a  "house  warming"  at  Colonel 
Randall's  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  It  read : 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  D.  F.  Randall  request  the  honour 
of  your  presence  at  a  house  warming,  Friday  even 
ing,  January  30,  190 — ,  at  eight:  o'clock.  Rockden- 
of-the-Hills." 

"It  is  addressed  to  me,  too,  Anderson,"  said  his  wife, 
pointing  to  the  envelope.  "It's  the  new  house  they 
finished  last  fall.  Anonymous  letter !  Fiddlesticks ! 
I  bet  there's  one  at  the  post-office  fer  each  one  of  the 
girls." 

"Roscoe  got  some  of  the  mail,"  murmured  the  mar 
shal  sheepishly.  "Where  is  that  infernal  boy?  He'd 
oughter  be  strapped  good  and  hard  fer  holdin'  back 
letters  like  this,"  growled  he,  eager  to  run  the  subject 
into  another  channel.  After  pondering  all  evening, 
he  screwed  up  the  courage  and  asked  Bonner  not  to 


As  the  Heart  Grows  Older  235 

tell  any  one  of  his  error  in  regard  to  the  invitation. 
Roscoe  produced  invitations  for  his  sister  and  Rosalie. 
He  furthermore  announced  that  half  the  people  in 
town  had  received  them. 

"There's  a  telegram  comin'  up  fer  you  after  a  while, 
Mr.  Bonner,"  he  said.  "Bud's  out  delivering  one 
to  Mr.  Grimes,  and  he's  going  to  stop  here  on  the 
way  back.  I  was  at  the  station  when  it  come  in.  It's 
from  your  ma,  and  it  says  she'll  be  over  from  Boggs 
City  early  in  the  morning." 

"Thanks,  Roscoe,"  said  Bonner  with  an  amused 
glance  at  Rosalie;  "you've  saved  me  the  trouble  of 
reading  it." 

"They  are  coming  to-morrow,"  said  Rosalie  long 
afterward,  as  the  last  of  the  Crows  straggled  off  to 
bed.  "You  will  have  to  go  away  with  them,  won't 
you?" 

"I'm  an  awful  nuisance  about  here,  I  fancy,  and 
you'll  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  me,"  he  said  softly,  his  gaze 
on  the  blazing  "back-log." 

"No  more  so  than  you  will  be  to  go,"  she  said  so 
coolly  that  his  pride  suffered  a  distinct  shock.  He 
stole  a  shy  glance  at  the  face  of  the  girl  opposite.  It 
was  as  calm  and  serene  as  a  May  morning.  Her  eyes 
likewise  were  gazing  into  the  blaze,  and  her  fingers 
were  idly  toying  with  the  fringe  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair. 

"By  George!"  he  thought,  a  weakness  assailing  his 
heart  suddenly;  "I  don't  believe  she  cares  a  rap!" 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

The  Left  Ventricle 

THE  next  day  Mrs.  Bonner  and  Miss  Bonner  de 
scended  upon  Tinkletown.  They  were  driven  over 
from  Boggs  City  in  an  automobile,  and  their  advent 
caused  a  new  thrill  of  excitement  in  town.  Half  of 
the  women  in  Tinkletown  found  excuse  to  walk  past 
Mr.  Crow's  home  some  time  during  the  day,  and  not  a 
few  of  them  called  to  pay  their  respects  to  Mrs. 
Crow,  whether  they  owed  them  or  not,  much  to  that 
estimable  lady's  discomfiture.  ' 
Wicker's  mother  was  a  handsome,  aristocratic  woman 
with  a  pedigree  reaching  back  to  Babylon  or  some 
other  historic  starting  place.  Her  ancestors  were 
Tories  at  the  time  of  the  American  Revolution,  and 
she  was  proud  of  it.  Her  husband's  forefathers  had 
shot  a  few  British  in  those  days,  it  is  true,  and  had 
successfully  chased  some  of  her  own  ancestors  over 
to  Long  Island,  but  that  did  not  matter  in  these 
twentieth  century  days.  Mr.  Bonner  long  since  had 
gone  to  the  tomb;  and  his  widow  at  fifty  was  quite 
the  queen  of  all  she  surveyed,  which  .was  not  incon 
siderable.  The  Bonners  were  rich  in  worldly  posses 
sions,  rich  in  social  position,  rich  in  traditions.  The 
daughter,  just  out  in  society,  was  a  pretty  girl,  several 
years  younger  than  Wicker.  She  was  the  idol  of  his 
heart.  This  slip  of  a  girl  had  been  to  him  the  bright- 


The  Left  Ventricle  237 

est,  wittiest  and  prettiest  girl  in  all  the  world.  Now, 
he  was  wondering  how  the  other  girl,  who  was  not 
his  sister,  would  compare  with  her  when  they  stood 
together  before  him. 

Naturally,  Mrs.  Crow  and  her  daughters  sank  into 
a  nervous  panic  as  soon  as  these  fashionable  women 
from  Boston  set  foot  inside  the  humble  home.  They 
lost  what  little  self-possession  they  had  managed  to 
acquire  and  floundered  miserably  through  the  pre 
liminaries. 

But  calm,  sweet  and  composed  as  the  most  fastidi 
ous  would  require,  Rosalie  greeted  the  visitors  with 
out  a  shadow  of  confusion  or  a  sign  of  gaucherie. 
Bonner  felt  a  thrill  of  joy  and  pride  as  he  took  note 
of  the  look  of  surprise  that  crept  into  his  mother's 
face — a  surprise  that  did  not  diminish  as  the  girl  went 
through  her  unconscious  test. 

"By  George!"  he  cried  jubilantly  to  himself,  "she's 
something  to  be  proud  of — she's  a  queen!" 

Later  in  the  day,  after  the  humble  though  impos 
ing  lunch  (the  paradox  was  permissible  in  Tinkle- 
town),  Mrs.  Bonner  found  time  and  opportunity  to 
express  her  surprise  and  her  approval  to  him.  With 
the  insight  of  the  real  aristocrat,  she  was  not  blind 
to  the  charms  of  the  girl,  who  blossomed  like  a  rose  in 
this  out-of-the-way  patch  of  nature.  The  tact  which 
impelled  Rosalie  to  withdraw  herself  and  all  of  the 
Crows  from  the  house,  giving  the  Bonners  an  oppor 
tunity  to  be  together  undisturbed,  did  not  escape  the 
clever  woman  of  the  world. 

"She  is  remarkable,  Wicker.     Tell  me  about  her. 


238        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Why  does  she  happen  to  be  living  in  this  wretched 
town  and  among  such  people?" 

Whereupon  Bonner  nHshed  into  a  detailed  and 
somewhat  lengthy  history  of  the  mysterious  Miss 
Gray,  repeating  it  as  it  had  come  to  him  from  her 
own  frank  lips,  but  with  embellishments  of  his  own 
that  would  have  brought  the  red  to  her  cheeks,  could 
she  have  heard  them.  His  mother's  interest  was  not 
assumed;  his  sister  was  fascinated  by  the  recital. 

"Who  knows,"  she  cried,  her  dark  eyes  sparkling, 
"she  may  be  an  heiress  to  millions!" 

"Or  a  princess  of  the  royal  blood!"  amended  her 
mother  with  an  enthusiasm  that  was  uncommon. 
"Blood  alone  hfes  made  this  girl  what  she  is.  Heaven 
knows  that  billions  or  trillions  could  not  have  over 
come  the  influences  of  a  lifetime  spent  in — in  Winkle- 
town — or  is  that  the  name?  It  doesn't  matter, 
Wicker — any  name  will  satisfy.  Frankly,  I  am  in 
terested  in  the  girl.  It  is  a  crime  to  permit  her  to 
vegetate  and  die  in  a  place  like  this." 

"But,  mother,  she  loves  these  people,"  protested 
Bonner  lifelessly.  "They  have  been  kind  to  her  all 
these  years.  They  have  been  parents,  protec 
tors " 

"And  they  have  been  well  paid  for  it,  my  son.  Please 
do  not  misunderstand  me,  I  am  not  planning  to  take 
her  off  their  hands.  I  am  not  going  to  reconstruct 
her  sphere  in  life.  Not  by  any  means.  I  am  merely 
saying  that  it  is  a  crime  for  her  to  be  penned  up  for 
life  in  this — this  desert.  I  doubt  very  much  whether 
her  parentage  will  ever  be  known,  and  perhaps  it 


The  Left  Ventricle  239 

is  just  as  well  that  it  isn't  to  be.  Still,  I  am  in 
terested." 

"Mamma,  I  think  it  would  be  very  nice  to  ask  her 
to  come  to  Boston  for  a  week  or  two,  don't  you?" 
suggested  Edith  Bonner,  warmly  but  doubtfully. 

"Bully!"  exclaimed  Wicker,  forgetting  in  his  excite 
ment  that  he  was  a  cripple.  "Have  her  come  on 
to  stop  a  while  with  you,  Ede.  It  will  be  a  great 
treat  for  her  and,  by  George,  I'm  inclined  to  think  it 
maybe  somewhat  beneficial  to  us." 

"Your  enthusiasm  is  beautiful,  Wicker,"  said  his 
mother,  perfectly  unruffled.  "I  have  no  doubt  you 
think  Boston  would  be  benefited,  too." 

"Now,  you  know,  mother,  it's  not  just  like  you  to 
be  snippish,"  said  he  easily.  "Besides,  after  living  a 
while  in  other  parts  of  the  world,  I'm  beginning  to 
feel  that  population  is  not  the  only  thing  about  Bos 
ton  that  can  be  enlarged.  It's  all  very  nice  to  pave 
our  streets  with  intellect  so  that  we  can't  stray  from 
our  own  footsteps,  but  I  rather  like  the  idea  of  losing 
my  way,  once  in  a  while,  even  if  I  have  to  look  at 
the  same  common,  old  sky  up  there  that  the  rest  of 
the  world  looks  at,  don't  you  know.  I've  learned 
recently  that  the  same  sun  that  shines  on  Boston  also 
radiates  for  the  rest  of  the  world." 

"Yes,  it  shines  in  Tinkletown,"  agreed  his  mother 
serenely.  "But,  my  dear — "  turning  to  her  daugh 
ter — "I  think  you  would  better  wait  a  while  before 
extending  the  invitation.  There  is  no  excuse  for 
rushing  into  the  unknown.  Let  time  have  a  chance." 

"By  Jove,  mother,  you  talk  sometimes  like  Ander- 


240        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

son  Crow.  He  often  says  things  like  that,"  cried 
Wicker  delightedly. 

"Dear  me!  How  can  you  say  such  a  thing, 
Wicker?" 

"Well,  you'd  like  old  Anderson.     He's  a  jewel!" 

"I  dare  say — an  emerald.  No,  no — that  was  not 
fair  or  kind,  Wicker.  I  unsay  it.  Mr.  Crow  and 
all  of  them  have  been  good  to  you.  Forgive  me  the 
sarcasm.  Mr.  Crow  is  perfectly  impossible,  but  I 
like  him.  He  has  a  heart,  and  that  is  more  than  most 
of  us  can  say.  And  now  let  us  return  to  earth  once 
more.  When  will  you  be  ready  to  start  for  Boston  ? 
To-morrow?" 

"Heavens,  no!  I'm  not  to  be  moved  for  quite  a 
long  time — danger  of  gangrene  or  something  of  the 
sort.  It's  astonishing,  mother,  what  capable  men 
these  country  doctors  are.  Dr.  Smith  is  some 
thing  of  a  marvel.  He — he — saved  my  leg." 

"My  boy — you  don't  mean  that — "  his  mother 
was  saying,  her  voice  trembling. 

"Yes;  that's  what  I  mean.  I'm  all  right  now,  but, 
of  course,  I  shall  be  very  careful  for  a  couple  of 
weeks.  One  can't  tell,  you  know.  Blood  poisoning 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  But  let's  not  talk  of  it — ^ 
it's  gruesome." 

"Indeed  it  is.  You  must  be  extremely  careful, 
Wicker.  Promise  me  that  you  will  do  nothing  fool 
ish.  Don't  use  your  leg  until  the  doctor — but  I  have 

something  better.  We  will  send  for  Dr.  J . 

He  can  run  up  from  Boston  two  or  three  times " 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,  mother!     Nonsense!     Smith 


The  Left  Ventricle  241 

knows  more  in  a  minute  than  J does  in  a  month. 

He's  handling  the  case  exactly  as  I  want  him  to.  Let 

well  enough  alone,  say  I.  You  know  J always 

wants  to  amputate  everything  that  can  be  cut  or  sawed 
off.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  let  him  try  it  on  me. 
I  need  my  legs." 

It  is  not  necessary  to  say  that  Mrs.  Bonner  was 
completely  won  over  by  this  argument.  She  com 
manded  him  to  stay  where  he  was  until  it  was  per 
fectly  safe  to  be  moved  across  the  river,  where  he 
could  recuperate  before  venturing  into  the  city  of  his 
birth.  Moreover,  she  announced  that  Edith  and  she 
would  remain  in  Boggs  City  until  he  was  quite  out  of 
danger,  driving  over  every  day  in  their  chartered 
automobile.  It  suddenly  struck  Bonner  that  it  would 
be  necessary  to  bribe  "Doc"  Smith  and  the  entire 
Crow  family,  if  he  was  to  maintain  his  position  as  an 
invalid. 

"Doc"  Smith  when  put  to  the  test  lied  ably  in  be 
half  of  his  client  (he  refused  to  call  him  his  patient) , 
and  Mrs.  Bonner  was  convinced.  Mr.  Crow  and  Eva 
vigorously  protested  that  the  young  man  would  not 
be  a  "mite  of  trouble,"  and  that  he  could  stay  as  long 
as  he  liked. 

"He's  a  gentleman,  Mrs.  Bonner,"  announced  the 
marshal,  as  if  the  mother  was  being  made  aware  of 
the  fact  for  the  first  time.  "Mrs.  Crow  an'  me  have 
talked  it  over,  an'  I  know  what  I'm  talkin'  about. 
He's  a  perfect  gentleman." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Crow.  I  am  happy  to  hear  you 
say  that,"  said  Mrs.  Bonner,  with  fine  tact.  "You 


242        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

will  not  mind  if  he  stops  here  a  while  longer 
then?" 

"I  should  say  not.  If  he'll  take  the  job,  I'll  app'int 
him  deputy  marshal." 

"I'd  like  a  picture  of  you  with  the  badge  and  uni 
form,  Wick,"  said  Edith  with  good-natured  banter. 

Just  before  the  two  ladies  left  for  Boggs  City 
that  evening  Bonner  managed  to  say  something  to 
Edith. 

"Say,  Ede,  I  think  it  would  be  uncommonly  decent 
of  you  to  ask  Miss  Gray  down  to  Boston  this  spring. 
You'll  like  her." 

"Wicker,  if  it  were  not  so  awfully  common,  I'd 
laugh  in  my  sleeve,"  said  she,  surveying  him  with  a 
calm  scrutiny  that  disconcerted.  "I  wasn't  born  yes 
terday,  you  know.  Mother  was,  perhaps,  but  not 
your  dear  little  sister.  Cheer  up,  brother.  You'll 
get  over  it,  just  like  all  the  rest.  I'll  ask  her  to 
come,  but —  Please  don't  frown  like  that.  I'll 
suspect  something." 

During  the  many  little  automobile  excursions  that 
the  two  girls  enjoyed  during  those  few  days  in  Tinkle- 
town,  Miss  Bonner  found  much  to  love  in  Rosalie, 
much  to  esteem  and  a  great  deal  to  anticipate.  Pur 
posely,  she  set  about  to  learn  by  "deduction"  just 
what  Rosalie's  feelings  were  for  the  big  brother. 
She  would  not  have  been  surprised  to  discover  the 
telltale  signs  of  a  real  but  secret  affection  on  Rosalie's 
part,  but  she  was,  on  the  contrary,  amazed  and  not 
a  little  chagrined  to  have  the  young  girl  meet  every 
advance  with  a  joyous  candour,  that  definitely  set 


The  Left  Ventricle  243 

aside  any  possibility  of  love  for  the  supposedly  irre 
sistible  brother.  Miss  Edith's  mind  was  quite  at  rest, 
but  with  the  arrogant  pride  of  a  sister,  she  resented 
the  fact  that  any  one  could  know  this  cherished 
brother  and  not  fall  a  victim.  Perversely,  she  would 
have  hated  Rosalie  had  she  caught  her,  in  a  single 
moment  of  unguardedness,  revealing  a  feeling  more 
tender  than  friendly  interest  for  him. 

Sophisticated  and  world-wise,  the  gay,  careless  Miss 
Bonner  read  her  pages  quickly — she  skimmed  them 
— but  she  saw  a  great  deal  between  the  lines.  If  her 
mother  had  been  equally  discerning,  that  very  esti 
mable  lady  might  have  found  herself  immensely 
relieved  along  certain  lines. 

Bonner  was  having  a  hard  time  of  it  these  days. 
It  was  worse  than  misery  to  stay  indoors,  and  it  was 
utterly  out  of  the  question  for  him  to  venture  out.  His 
leg  was  healing  with  disgusting  rashness,  but  his  heart 
was  going  into  an  illness  that  was  to  scoff  at  the  cures 
of  man.  And  if  his  parting  with  his  mother  and  the 
rosy-faced  young  woman  savoured  of  relief,  he  must 
be  forgiven.  A  sore  breast  is  no  respecter  of  persons. 

They  were  returning  to  the  Hub  by  the  early  morn 
ing  train  from  Boggs  City,  and  it  was  understood  that 
Rosalie  was  to  come  to  them  in  June.  Let  it  be  said 
in  good  truth  that  both  Mrs.  Bonner  and  her  daugh 
ter  were  delighted  to  have  her  promise.  If  they  felt 
any  uneasiness  as  to  the  possibility  of  unwholesome 
revelations  in  connection  with  her  birth,  they  pur 
posely  blindfolded  themselves  and  indulged  in  the 
game  of  consequences. 


244        Tfa  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Mrs.  Bonner  was  waiting  in  the  automobile,  having 
said  good-bye  to  Wicker. 

"I'll  keep  close  watch  on  him,  Mrs.  Bonner,"  prom 
ised  Anderson,  "and  telegraph  you  if  his  condition 
changes  a  mite.  I  ast  'Doc'  Smith  to-day  to  tell  me 
the  real  truth  'bout  him,  an' " 

"The  real  truth?  What  do  you  mean?"  she  cried, 
in  fresh  alarm. 

"Don't  worry,  ma'am.  He's  improvin'  fine,  'doc' 
says.  He  told  me  he'd  be  out  o'  danger  when  he  got 
back  to  Boston.  His  heart's  worryin'  'doc'  a  little. 
I  ast  'im  to  speak  plain  an'  tell  me  jest  how  bad  it's 
affected.  He  said:  'At  present,  only  the  left  ventricle 
— whatever  that  be— only  the  left  one  is  punctured, 
but  the  right  one  seems  to  need  a  change  of  air.'  ' 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

• 

The  Grin  Derisive 

"I  LIKE  your  ma,"  said  Anderson  to  Wicker,  later 
in  the  evening.  "She's  a  perfect  lady.  Doggone,  it's 
a  relief  to  see  a  rich  woman  that  knows  how  to  be  a 
lady.  She  ain't  a  bit  stuck  up  an'  yet  she's  a  reg'lar 
aristocrat.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  what  happened 
to  Judge  Courtwright's  wife?  No?  Well,  it  was  a 
long  time  ago,  right  here  in  Tinkletown.  The  judge 
concluded  this  \vould  be  a  good  place  fer  a  summer 
home — so  him  an'  her  put  up  a  grand  residence  down 
there  on  the  river  bluff.  It  was  the  only  summer 
place  on  this  side  of  the  river.  Well,  of  course  Mrs. 
Courtwright  had  to  turn  in  an'  be  the  leader  of  the 
women  in  this  place.  She  lorded  it  over  'em  an'  she 
give  'em  to  understand  that  she  was  a  queen  er  some- 
thin'  like  that  an'  they  was  nothin'  but  peasants.  An' 
the  derned  fool  women  'lowed  her  to  do  it,  too. 
Seems  as  though  her  great-grandfather  was  a  'squire 
over  in  England,  an'  she  had  a  right  to  be  swell. 
Well,  she  ruled  the  roost  fer  two  summers  an'  no 
body  could  get  near  her  without  a  special  dispensa 
tion  from  the  Almighty.  She  wouldn't  look  at  any 
body  with  her  eyes;  her  chin  was  so  high  in  the  air 
that  she  had  to  look  through  her  nose. 

"Her  husband  was  as  old  as  Methoosalum — that  is, 
he  was  as  old  as  Methoosalum  was  when  he  was  a 


246        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

boy,  so  to  speak — an'  she  had  him  skeered  of  his 
life.  But  I  fixed  her.  At  the  end  of  the  second  sum 
mer  she  was  ready  to  git  up  an'  git,  duke  er  no  duke. 
Lemme  me  give  you  a  tip,  Wick.  If  you  want  to 
fetch  a  queen  down  to  your  level,  jest  let  her  know 
you're  laughin'  at  her.  Well,  sir,  the  judge's  wife 
used  to  turn  up  her  nose  at  me  until  I  got  to  feelin' 
too  small  to  be  seen.  My  pride  was  wallerin'  in  the 
dust.  Finally,  I  thought  of  a  scheme  to  fix  her. 
Every  time  I  saw  her,  I'd  grin  at  her — not  sayin'  a 
word,  mind  you,  but  jest  lookin'  at  her  as  if  she 
struck  me  as  bein'  funny.  Well,  sir,  I  kept  it  up  good 
an'  strong.  First  thing  I  knowed,  she  was  beglnnin'  to 
look  as  though  a  bee  had  stung  her  an'  she  couldn't  find 
the  place.  I'd  ketch  her  stealin'  sly  glances  at  me  an' 
she  allus  found  me  with  a  grin  on  my  face — a  good, 
healthy  grin,  too. 

"There  wasn't  anything  to  laugh  at,  mind  you,  but 
she  didn't  know  that.  She  got  to  fixin'  her  back  hair 
and  lookin'  worried  about  her  clothes.  'Nen  she'd 
wipe  her  face  to  see  if  the  powder  was  on  straight, 
all  the  time  wonderin'  what  in  thunder  I  was  laughin' 
at.  If  she  passed  in  her  kerridge  she'd  peep  back  to 
see  if  I  was  laughin' ;  and  I  allus  was.  I  never  failed. 
All  this  time  I  wasn't  sayin'  a  word — jest  grinnin' 
as  though  she  tickled  me  half  to  death.  Gradually 
I  begin  to  be  scientific  about  it.  I  got  so  that  when 
she  caught  me  laughin',  I'd  try  my  best  to  hide  the 
grin.  Course  that  made  it  all  the  worse.  She  fid 
geted  an'  squirmed  an'  got  red  in  the  face  till  it 
looked  like  she  was  pickled.  Doggone,  ef  she  didn't 


The  Grin  Derisive  247 

begin  to  neglect  her  business  as  a  great-grand 
daughter  !  She  didn't  have  time  to  lord  it  over  her 
peasants.  She  was  too  blame  busy  wonderin'  what  I 
was  laughin'  at. 

"  'Nen  she  begin  to  look  peaked  an'  thin.  She 
looked  like  she  was  seein'  ghosts  all  the  time.  That 
blamed  grin  of  mine  pursued  her  every  minute. 
Course,  she  couldn't  kick  about  it.  That  wouldn't 
do  at  all.  She  jest  had  to  bear  it  without  grinnin'. 
There  wasn't  anything  to  say.  Finally,  she  got  to 
stayin'  away  from  the  meetin's  an'  almost  quit  drivin' 
through  the  town.  Everybody  noticed  the  change  in 
her.  People  said  she  was  goin'  crazy  about  her  back 
hair.  She  lost  thirty  pounds  worryin'  before  August, 
and  when  September  come,  the  judge  had  to  take  her 
to  a  rest  cure.  They  never  come  back  to  Tinkletown, 
an'  the  judge  had  to  sell  the  place  fer  half  what  it 
cost  him.  Fer  two  years  she  almost  went  into 
hysterics  when  anybody  laughed.  But  it  done  her 
good.  It  changed  her  idees.  She  got  over  her  high 
an'  mighty  ways,  they  say,  an'  I  hear  she's  one  of 
the  nicest,  sweetest  old  ladies  in  Boggs  City  nowa 
days.  But  Blootch  Peabody  says  that  to  this  day 
she  looks  flustered  when  anybody  notices  her  back 
hair.  The  Lord  knows  I  wa'n't  laughin'  at  her  hair. 
I  don't  see  why  she  thought  so,  do  you?" 

Bonner  laughed  long  and  heartily  over  the  experi 
ment;  but  Rosalie  vigorously  expressed  her  disap 
proval  of  the  marshal's  methods. 

"It's  the  only  real  mean  thing  I  ever  heard  of  you 
doing,  daddy  Crow!"  she  cried.  "It  was  cruel!" 


248        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Course  you'd  take  her  part,  bein'  a  woman,"  said 
he  serenely.  "Mrs.  Crow  did,  too,  when  I  told  her 
about  it  twenty  years  ago.  Women  ain't  got  much 
sense  of  humour,  have  they,  Wick?"  He  was  calling 
him  Wick  nowadays;  and  the  young  man  enjoyed  the 
familiarity. 

The  days  came  when  Bonner  could  walk  about  with 
his  cane,  and  he  was  not  slow  to  avail  himself  of  the 
privilege  this  afforded.  It  meant  enjoyable  strolls 
with  Rosalie,  and  it  meant  the  elevation  of  his  spirits 
to  such  heights  that  the  skies  formed  no  bounds  for 
them.  The  town  was  not  slow  to  draw  conclusions. 
Every  one  said  it  would  be  a  "match."  It  was  certain 
that  the  interesting  Boston  man  had  acquired  a  clear 
field.  Tinkletown's  beaux  gave  up  in  despair  and 
dropped  out  of  the  contest  with  the  hope  that  com 
plete  recovery  from  his  injuries  might  not  only  banish 
Bonner  from  the  village,  but  also  from  the  thoughts 
of  Rosalie  Gray.  Most  of  the  young  men  took  their 
medicine  philosophically.  They  had  known  from  the 
first  that  their  chances  were  small.  Blootch  Peabody 
and  Ed  Higgins,  because  of  the  personal  rivalry  be 
tween  themselves,  hoped  on  and  on  and  grew  more 
bitter  between  themselves,  instead  of  toward  Bonner. 

Anderson  Crow  and  Eva  were  delighted  and  the 
Misses  Crow,  after  futile  efforts  to  interest  the  young 
man  in  their  own  wares,  fell  in  with  the  old  folks 
and  exuberantly  whispered  to  the  world  that  "it 
would  be  perfectly  glorious."  Roscoe  was  not  so 
charitable.  He  was  soundly  disgusted  with  the 
thought  of  losing  his  friend  Bonner  in  the  hated 


The  Grin  Derisive  249 

bonds  of  matrimony.  From  his  juvenile  point  of 
view,  it  was  a  fate  that  a  good  fellow  like  Bonner  did 
not  deserve.  Even  Rosalie  was  not  good  enough 
for  him,  so  he  told  Bud  Long;  but  Bud,  who  had  wor 
shipped  Rosalie  with  a  hopeless  devotion  through 
most  of  his  short  life,  took  strong  though  sheepish 
exceptions  to  the  remark.  It  seemed  quite  settled  in 
the  minds  of  every  one  but  Bonner  and  Rosalie  them 
selves.  They  went  along  evenly,  happily,  perhaps 
dreamily,  letting  the  present  and  the  future  take  care 
of  themselves  as  best  they  could,  making  mountains 
of  the  past — mountains  so  high  and  sheer  that  they 
could  not  be  surmounted  in  retreat. 

Bonner  was  helplessly  in  love — so  much  so,  indeed, 
that  in  the  face  of  it,  he  lost  the  courage  that  had 
carried  him  through  trivial  affairs  of  the  past,  and 
left  him  floundering  vaguely  in  seas  that  looked  old 
and  yet  were  new.  Hourly,  he  sought  for  the  first 
sign  of  love  in  her  eyes,  for  the  first  touch  of  senti 
ment;  but  if  there  was  a  point  of  weakness  in  her  de 
fence,  it  was  not  revealed  to  the  hungry  perception 
of  the  would-be  conqueror.  And  so  they  drifted  on 
through  the  February  chill,  that  seemed  warm  to 
them,  through  the  light  hours  and  the  dark  ones, 
quickly  and  surely  to  the  day  which  was  to  call  him 
cured  of  one  ill  and  yet  sorely  afflicted  by  another. 

Through  it  all  he  was  saying  to  himself  that  it  did 
not  matter  what  her  birth  may  have  been,  so  long  as 
she  lived  at  this  hour  in  his  life,  and  yet  a  still,  cool 
voice  was  whispering  procrastination  with  ding-dong 
persistency  through  every  avenue  of  his  brain. 


250        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Wait!"  said  the  cool  voice  of  prejudice.  His  heart 
did  not  hear,  but  his  brain  did.  One  look  of  submis 
sion  from  her  tender  eyes  and  his  brain  would  have 
turned  deaf  to  the  small,  cool  voice — but  her  eyes 
stood  their  ground  and  the  voice  survived. 

The  day  was  fast  approaching  when  it  would  be 
necessary  for  him  to  leave  the  home  of  Mr.  Crow. 
He  could  no  longer  encroach  upon  the  hospitality 
and  good  nature  of  the  marshal — especially  as  he 
had  declined  the  proffered  appointment  to  become 
deputy  town  marshal.  Together  they  had  discussed 
every  possible  side  to  the  abduction  mystery  and  had 
laid  the  groundwork  for  a  systematic  attempt  at  a 
solution.  There  was  nothing  more  for  them  to  do. 
True  to  his  promise,  Bonner  had  put  the  case  in  the 
hands  of  one  of  the  greatest  detectives  in  the  land, 
together  with  every  known  point  in  the  girl's  history. 
Tinkletown  was  not  to  provide  the  solution,  although 
it  contained  the  mystery.  On  that  point  there  could 
be  no  doubt;  so,  Mr.  Bonner  was  reluctantly  com 
pelled  to  admit  to  himself  that  he  had  no  plausible 
excuse  for  staying  on.  The  great  detective  from  New 
York  had  come  to  town,  gathered  all  of  the  facts 
under  cover  of  strictest  secrecy,  run  down  every  pos 
sible  shadow  of  a  clew  in  Boggs  City,  and  had 
returned  to  the  metropolis,  there  to  begin  the  search 
twenty-one  years  back. 

"Four  weeks,"  Bonner  was  saying  to  her  reflec 
tively,  as  they  came  homeward  from  their  last  visit 
to  the  abandoned  mill  on  Turnip  Creek.  It  was  a 
bright,  warm  February  morning,  suggestive  of  spring 


The  Grin  Derisive  2  5  i 

and  fraught  with  the  fragrance  of  something  far 
sweeter.  "Four  weeks  of  idleness  and  joy  to  me — 
almost  a  lifetime  in  the  waste  of  years.  Does  it  seem 
long  to  you,  Miss  Gray — oh,  I  remember,  I  am  to 
call  you  Rosalie." 

"It  seems  that  I  have  known  you  always  instead  of 
for  four  weeks,"  she  said  gently.  "They  have  been 
happy  weeks,  haven't  they?  My — our  only  fear  is 
that  you  haven't  been  comfortable  in  our  poor  little 
home.  It's  not  what  you  are  accustomed — 

"Home  is  what  the  home  folks  make  it,"  he  said, 
striving  to  quote  a  vague  old  saying.  He  was  dimly 
conscious  of  a  subdued  smile  on  her  part  and  he  felt 
the  fool.  "At  any  rate,  I  was  more  than  comfortable. 
I  was  happy — never  so  happy.  All  my  life  shall  be 
built  about  this  single  month — my  past  ends  with  it, 
my  future  begins.  You,  Rosalie,"  he  went  on  swiftly, 
his  eyes  gleaming  with  the  love  that  would  not  be 
denied,  "are  the  spirit  of  life  as  I  shall  know  it  from 
this  day  forth.  It  is  you  who  have  made  Tinkletown 
a  kingdom,  one  of  its  homes  a  palace.  Don't  turn 
your  face  away,  Rosalie." 

But  she  turned  her  face  toward  him  and  her  dark 
eyes  did  not  flinch  as  they  met  his,  out  there  in  the 
bleak  old  wood. 

"Don't,  please  don't,  Wicker,"  she  said  softly, 
firmly.  Her  hand  touched  his  arm  for  an  instant. 
"You  will  understand,  won't  you?  Please  don't!" 
There  was  a  world  of  meaning  in  it. 

His  heart  turned  cold  as  ice,  the  blood  left  his  face. 
He  understood.  She  did  not  love  him. 


252        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Yes,"  he  said,  his  voice  dead  and  hoarse,  "I  think 
I  understand,  Rosalie.  I  have  taken  too  much  for 
granted,  fool  that  I  am.  Bah!  The  egotism  of  a 
fool!" 

"You  must  not  speak  like  that,"  she  said,  her  face 
contracted  by  pain  and  pity.  "You  are  the  most 
wonderful  man  I've  ever  known — the  best  and  the 
truest.  But — "  and  she  paused,  with  a  wan,  drear 
smile  on  her  lips. 

"I  understand,"  he  interrupted.  "Don't  say  it.  I 
want  to  think  that  some  day  you  will  feel  like  saying 
something  else,  and  I  want  to  hope,  Rosalie,  that  it 
won't  always  be  like  this.  Let  us  talk  about  some 
thing  else."  But  neither  cared  to  speak  for  what 
seemed  an  hour.  They  were  in  sight  of  home  before 
the  stony  silence  was  broken.  "I  may  come  over 
from  Bonner  Place  to  see  you?"  he  asked  at  last. 
He  was  to  cross  the  river  the  next  day  for  a  stay  of 
a  week  or  two  at  his  uncle's  place. 

"Yes — often,  Wicker.  I  shall  want  to  see  you 
every  day.  Yes,  every  day;  I'm  sure  of  it,"  she  said 
wistfully,  a  hungry  look  in  her  eyes  that  he  did  not 
see,  for  he  was  staring  straight  ahead.  Had  he  seen 
that  look  or  caught  the  true  tone  in  her  voice,  the 
world  might  not  have  looked  so  dark  to  him.  When 
he  did  look  at  her  again,  her  face  was  calm  almost  to 
sereneness. 

"And  you  will  come  to  Boston  in  June  just  the 
same?" 

"If  your  sister  and — and  your  mother  still  want  me 
to  come." 


I    THINK     I    UNDERSTAND,     RoSAI.IE 


The  Grin  Derisive  253 

She  was  thinking  of  herself,  the  nameless  one,  in 
the  house  of  his  people;  she  was  thinking  of  the 
doubts,  the  speculations — even  the  fears  that  would 
form  the  background  of  her  welcome  in  that  proud 
house.  No  longer  was  Rosalie  Gray  regarding  her 
self  as  the  happy,  careless  foster-child  of  Anderson 
Crow;  she  was  seeing  herself  only  as  the  castaway, 
the  unwanted,  and  the  world  was  growing  bitter  for 
her.  But  Bonner  was  blind  to  all  this;  he  could  not, 
should  not  know. 

"You  know  they  want  you  to  come.  Why  do  you 
say  that?"  he  asked  quickly,  a  strange,  dim  perspec 
tive  rising  before  him  for  an  instant,  only  to  fade  away 
before  it  could  be  analysed. 

"One  always  says  that,"  she  replied  with  a  smile. 
"It  is  the  penalty  of  being  invited.  Your  sister  has 
written  the  dearest  letter  to  me,  and  I  have  answered 
it.  We  love  one  another,  she  and  I." 

"Rosalie,  I  am  going  to  write  to  you,"  said  he  sud 
denly;  "you  will  answer?" 

"Yes,"  she  told  him  simply.  His  heart  quickened, 
but  faltered,  and  was  lost.  "I  had  a  long  letter  from 
Elsie  Banks  to-day,"  she  went  on  with  an  indifference 
that  chilled. 

"Oh,"  he  said;  "she  is  your  friend  who  was  or  is 
to  marry  Tom  Reddon,  I  believe.  I  knew  him  at 
Harvard.  Tell  me,  are  they  married?" 

"No.  It  was  not  to  take  place  until  March,  but  now 
she  writes  that  her  mother  is  ill  and  must  go  to  Cali 
fornia  for  several  months.  Mr.  Reddon  wants  to  be 
married  at  once,  or  before  they  go  West,  at  least;  but 


254       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

she  says  she  cannot  consent  while  her  mother  requires 
so  much  of  her.  I  don't  know  how  it  will  end,  but  I 
presume  they  will  be  married  and  all  go  to  California. 
That  seems  the  simple  and  just  way,  doesn't  it?" 

"Any  way  seems  just,  I'd  say,"  he  said.  "They  love 
one  another,  so  what's  the  odds?  Do  you  know 
Reddon  well?" 

"I  have  seen  him  many  times,"  she  replied  with  ap 
parent  evasiveness. 

"He  is  a — "  but  here  he  stopped  as  if  paralysis  had 
seized  him  suddenly.  The  truth  shot  into  his  brain 
like  a  deadly  bolt.  Everything  was  as  plain  as  day 
to  him  now.  She  stooped  to  pick  up  a  slim,  broken 
reed  that  crossed  her  path,  and  her  face  was  averted. 
"God !"  was  the  cry  that  almost  escaped  his  lips.  "She 
loves  Reddon,  and  he  is  going  to  marry  her  best 
friend!"  Cold  perspiration  started  from  every  pore 
in  his  body.  He  had  met  the  doom  of  love — the  end 
of  hope. 

"He  has  always  loved  her,"  said  Rosalie  so  calmly 
that  he  was  shocked  by  her  courage.  "I  hope  she 
will  not  ask  him  to  wait." 

Rosalie  never  understood  why  Bonner  looked  at  her 
in  amazement  and  said: 

"By  Jove,  you  are  a — a  marvel,  Rosalie  1" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
The  Blind  Man's  Eyes 

BONNER  went  away  without  another  word  of  love  to 
her.  He  saw  the  futility  of  hoping,  and  he  was  noble 
enough  to  respect  her  plea  for  silence  on  the  subject 
that  seemed  distasteful  to  her.  He  went  as  one  con 
quered  and  subdued;  he  went  with  the  iron  in  his  heart 
for  the  first  time — deeply  imbedded  and  racking. 

Bonner  came  twice  from  the  place  across  the  river. 
Anderson  observed  that  he  looked  "peaked,"  and 
Rosalie  mistook  the  hungry,  wan  look  in  his  face  for 
the  emaciation  natural  to  confinement  indoors.  He 
was  whiter  than  was  his  wont,  and  there  was  a  dogged, 
stubborn  look  growing  about  his  eyes  and  mouth  that 
would  have  been  understood  by  the  sophisticated.  It 
was  the  first  indication  of  the  battle  his  love  was  to 
wage  in  days  to  come.  He  saw  no  sign  of  weakening 
in  Rosalie.  She  would  not  let  him  look  into  her  brave 
little  heart,  and  so  he  turned  his  back  upon  the  field 
and  fled  to  Boston,  half  beaten,  but  unconsciously 
collecting  his  forces  for  the  strife  of  another  day.  He 
did  not  know  it  then,  nor  did  she,  but  his  love  was  not 
vanquished;  it  had  met  Its  first  rebuff,  that  was  all. 

Tinkletown  was  sorry  to  see  him  depart,  but  it 
thrived  on  his  promise  to  return.  Every  one  winked 
slyly  behind  his  back,  for,  of  course,  Tinkletown 
understood  it  all.  He  would  come  back  often  and 


256        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

then  not  at  all — for  the  magnet  would  go  away  with 
him  in  the  end.  The  busybodies,  good-natured  but 
garrulous,  did  not  have  to  rehearse  the  story  to  its 
end;  it  would  have  been  superfluous.  Be  it  said  here, 
however,  that  Rosalie  was  not  long  in  settling  many 
of  the  speculators  straight  in  their  minds.  It  seemed 
improbable  that  it  should  not  be  as  they  had  thought 
and  hoped.  The  news  soon  reached  Blootch  Peabody 
and  Ed  Higgins,  and,  both  eager  to  revive  a  blighted 
hope,  in  high  spirits,  called  to  see  Rosalie  on  the  same 
night.  It  is  on  record  that  neither  of  them  uttered 
two  dozen  words  between  eight  o'clock  and  ten,  so 
bitterly  was  the  presence  of  the  other  resented. 
March  came,  and  with  it,  to  the  intense  amazement 


The  Blind  Mans  Eyes  257 

of  Anderson  Crow,  the  ever-mysterious  thousand  dol 
lars,  a  few  weeks  late.  On  a  certain  day  the  old 
marshal  took  Rosalie  to  Boggs  City,  and  the  guardian 
ship  proceedings  were  legally  closed.  Listlessly  she 
accepted  half  of  the  money  he  had  saved,  having  re 
fused  to  take  all  of  it.  She  was  now  her  own  mistress, 
much  to  her  regret  if  not  to  his. 

"I  may  go  on  living  with  you,  Daddy  Crow,  may  I 
not?"  she  asked  wistfully  as  they  drove  home  through 
the  March  blizzard.  "This  doesn't  mean  that  I  can 
not  be  your  own  little  girl  after  to-day,  does  it?" 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Rosalie  Gray,  er  I'll  put  you  to 
bed  'thout  a  speck  o'  supper,"  growled  he  in  his  most 
threatening  tones,  but  the  tears  were  rolling  down  his 
cheeks  at  the  time. 

"Do  you  know,  daddy,  I  honestly  hope  that  the  big 
city  detective  won't  find  out  who  I  am,"  she  said  after 
a  long  period  of  reflection. 

"Cause  why?" 

"Because,  if  he  doesn't,  you  won't  have  any  excuse  for 
turning  me  out." 

"I'll  not  only  send  you  to  bed,  but  I'll  give  you  a 
tarnation  good  lickin'  besides  if  you  talk  like " 

"But  I'm  twenty-one.  You  have  no  right,"  said  she 
so  brightly  that  he  cracked  his  whip  over  the  horse's 
back  and  blew  his  nose  twice  for  full  measure  of 
gratitude. 

"Well,  I  ain't  heerd  anything  from  that  fly  detective 
lately,  an'  I'm  beginnin'  to  think  he  ain't  sech  a  long 
sight  better'n  I  am,"  said  he  proudly. 

"He  isn't  half  as  good !"  she  cried. 


258        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"I  mean  as  a  detective,"  he  supplemented  apolo 
getically. 

"So  do  I,"  she  agreed  earnestly;  but  it  was  lost  on 
him. 

There  was  a  letter  at  home  for  her  from  Edith 
Bonner.  It  brought  the  news  that  Wicker  was  going 
South  to  recuperate.  His  system  had  "gone  off"  since 
the  accident,  and  the  March  winds  were  driving  him 
away  temporarily.  Rosalie's  heart  ached  that  night, 
and  there  was  a  still,  cold  dread  in  its  depths  that 
drove  sleep  away.  He  had  not  written  to  her,  and  she 
had  begun  to  fear  that  their  month  had  been  a  trifle 
to  him,  after  all.  Now  she  was  troubled  and  grieved 
that  she  should  have  entertained  the  fear.  Edith  went 
on  to  say  that  her  brother  had  seen  the  New  York 
detective,  who  was  still  hopelessly  in  the  dark,  but 
struggling  on  in  the  belief  that  chance  would  open  the 
way  for  him. 

Rosalie,  strive  as  she  would  to  prevent  it,  grew  pale 
and  the  roundness  left  her  cheek  as  the  weeks  went  by. 
Her  every  thought  was  with  the  man  who  had  gone 
to  the  Southland.  She  loved  him  as  she  loved  life, 
but  she  could  not  confess  to  him  then  or  thereafter 
unless  Providence  made  clear  the  purity  of  her  birth 
to  her  and  to  all  the  world.  When  finally  there  came 
to  her  a  long,  friendly,  even  dignified  letter  from  the 
far  South,  the  roses  began  to  struggle  back  to  her 
cheeks  and  the  warmth  to  her  heart.  Her  response 
brought  a  prompt  answer  from  him,  and  the  roses 
grew  faster  than  the  spring  itself.  Friendship,  sweet 
and  loyal,  marked  every  word  that  passed  between 


The  Blind  Mans  Ryes  259 

them,  but  there  was  a  dear  world  in  each  epistle— 
for  her,  at  least,  a  world  of  comfort  and  hope. 
She  was  praying,  hungering,  longing  for  June  to  come 
— sweet  June  and  its  tender  touch — June  with  its 
bitter-sweet  and  sun  clouds.  Now  she  was  forgetting 
the  wish  which  had  been  expressed  to  Anderson  Crow 
on  the  drive  home  from  Boggs  City.  In  its  place 
grew  the  fierce  hope  that  the  once  despised  detective 
might  clear  away  the  mystery  and  give  her  the  right  to 
stand  among  others  without  shame  and  despair. 

"Hear  from  Wick  purty  reg'lar,  don't  you,  Rosalie  ?" 
asked  Anderson  wickedly,  one  night  while  Blootch 
was  there.  The  suitor  moved  uneasily,  and  Rosalie 
shot  a  reproachful  glance  at  Anderson,  a  glance  full 
of  mischief  as  well. 

"He  writes  occasionally,  daddy." 

"I  didn't  know  you  corresponded  reg'larly,"  said 
Blootch. 

"I  did  not  say  regularly,  Blucher." 

"He  writes  sweet  things  to  beat  the  band,  I  bet,"  said 
Blootch  with  a  disdain  he  did  not  feel. 

"What  a  good  guesser  you  are!"  she  cried  torment- 
ingly. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  goin',"  exploded  Blootch 
wrathfully;  "it's  gittin'  late." 

"He  won't  sleep  much  to-night,"  said  Anderson,  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  the  gate  slammed  viciously  be 
hind  the  caller..  "Say,  Rosalie,  there's  somethin'  been 
fidgetin'  me  fer  quite  a  while.  I'll  blurt  it  right  out 
an'  have  it  over  with.  Air  you  in  love  with  Wick 
Bonner?" 


She  started,  and  for  an  instant  looked  at  him  with 
wide  open  eyes;  then  they  faltered  and  fell.  Her 
breath  came  in  a  frightened,  surprised  gasp  and  her 
cheeks  grew  warm.  When  she  looked  up  again,  her 
eyes  were  soft  and  pleading,  and  her  lips  trembled 
ever  so  slightly. 

"Yes,  Daddy  Crow,  I  love  him,"  she  almost  whis 
pered. 

"An5  him?    How  about  him?" 

"I  can't  answer  that,  daddy.    He  has  not  told  me." 

"Well,  he  ought  to,  doggone  him !" 

"I  could  not  permit  him  to  do  so  if  he  tried." 

"What!  You  wouldn't  permit?  What  in  tarnation 
do  you  mean?" 

"You  forget,  daddy,  I  have  no  right  to  his  love.  It 
would  be  wrong — all  wrong.  Good-night,  daddy," 
she  cried,  impulsively  kissing  him  and  dashing  away 
before  he  could  check  her,  but  not  before  he  caught 
the  sound  of  a  half  sob.  For  a  long  time  he  sat  and 
stared  at  the  fire  in  the  grate.  Then  he  slapped  his 
knee  vigorously,  squared  his  shoulders  and  set  his  jaw 
like  a  vise.  Arising,  he  stalked  upstairs  and  tapped 
on  her  door.  She  opened  it  an  inch  or  two  and  peered 
forth  at  him — a  pathetic  figure  in  white. 

"Don't  you  worry,  Rosalie,"  he  gulped.  "It  will 
be  all  right  and  hunky  dory.  I've  just  took  a  solemn 
oath  down  stairs." 

"An  oath,  daddy?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  swore  by  all  that's  good  and  holy  I'd 
find  out  who  your  parents  are  ef  it  took  till  doomsday. 
You  shall  be  set  right  in  the  eyes  of  everybody.  Now, 


"'[    BEG    YOUR     PARDON,'     HE    SAID     HUMBLY  " 


The  Blind  Ma?i's  Eyes  261 

if  I  was  you,  I'd  go  right  to  sleep.  There  ain't  nothin' 
to  worry  about.  I've  got  another  clew." 

She  smiled  lovingly  as  he  ambled  away.  Poor  old 
Anderson's  confidence  in  himself  was  only  exceeded  by 
his  great  love  for  her. 

At  last  June  smiled  upon  Rosalie  and  she  was  off 
for  Boston.  Her  gowns  were  from  Albany  and  her 
happiness  from  heaven — according  to  a  reverential 
Tinkletown  impression.  For  two  weeks  after  her  de 
parture,  Anderson  Crow  talked  himself  hoarse  into 
willing  ears,  always  extolling  the  beauty  of  his  erst 
while  ward  as  she  appeared  before  the  family  circle  in 
each  and  every  one  of  those  wonderful  gowns. 

This  humble  narrative  has  not  to  do  with  the  glories 
and  foibles  of  Boston  social  life.  It  has  to  deal  with 
the  adventures  of  Anderson  Crow  and  Rosalie  Gray 
in  so  far  as  they  pertain  to  a  place  called  Tinkletown. 
The  joys  and  pleasures  that  Rosalie  experienced  dur 
ing  that  month  of  June  were  not  unusual  in  character. 
The  loneliness  of  Anderson  Crow  was  not  a  novelty, 
if  one  stops  to  consider  how  the  world  revolves  for 
every  one  else.  Suffice  to  say  that  the  Bonners,  mere, 
fits  and  fille,  exerted  themselves  to  make  the  month  an 
unforgetable  one  to  the  girl — and  they  succeeded. 
The  usual  gaiety,  the  same  old  whirl  of  experiences, 
came  to  her  that  come  to  any  other  mortal  who  is 
being  entertained,  feted  and  admired.  She  was  a  suc 
cess — a  pleasure  in  every  way — not  only  to  her  hosts 
but  to  herself.  If  there  was  a  cloud  hanging  over  her 
head  through  all  these  days  and  nights,  the  world  was 
none  the  wiser;  the  silver  lining  was  always  visible. 


262        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Once  while  she  was  driving  with  the  Bonners  she 
saw  a  man  whom  she  knew,  but  did  not  expect  to  ever 
look  upon  again.  She  could  not  be  mistaken  in  him. 
It  was  Sam  Welch,  chief  of  the  kidnapers.  He  was 
gazing  at  her  from  a  crowded  street  corner,  but  dis 
appeared  completely  before  Bonner  could  set  the 
police  on  his  trail. 

Commencement  Day  at  Cambridge  brought  back 
hundreds  of  the  old  men — the  men  famous  in  every 
branch  of  study  and  athletics.  Among  them  was  hand 
some  Tom  Reddon.  He  came  to  see  her  at  the  Bon 
ner  home.  Elsie  Banks  was  to  return  in  September 
from  Honolulu,  and  they  were  to  be  married  in  the 
fall.  Wicker  Bonner  eagerly  looked  for  the  con 
fusion  of  love  in  her  eyes,  but  none  appeared.  That 
night  she  told  him,  in  reply  to  an  impulsive  demand, 
that  she  did  not  care  for  Reddon,  that  she  never  had 
known  the  slightest  feeling  of  tenderness  for  him. 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  love,  Rosalie?"  he  asked 
ruthlessly. 

"Yes,"  she  said  after  a  moment,  looking  him  bravely 
in  the  eyes. 

"And  could  you  never  learn  to  love  any  one  else?" 

"I  think  not,  Wicker,"  she  said  ever  so  softly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  humbly,  his  face  white 
and  his  lips  drawn.  "I  should  not  have  asked." 

And  so  he  remained  the  blind  man,  with  the  light 
shining  full  into  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

The  Mysterious  Questioner 

JULY  brought  Rosalie's  visit  to  an  end,  and  once 
more  Tinkletown  basked  in  her  smiles  and  yet  won 
dered  why  they  were  so  sad  and  wistful.  She  and 
Bonner  were  much  nearer,  far  dearer  to  one  another 
than  ever,  and  yet  not  one  effort  had  been  made  to 
bridge  the  chasm  of  silence  concerning  the  thing  that 
lay  uppermost  in  their  minds.  She  only  knew  that 
Anderson  Crow  had  not  "run  down"  his  clew,  nor 
had  the  New  York  sleuth  reported  for  weeks.  Un 
doubtedly,  the  latter  had  given  up  the  search,  for  the 
last  heard  of  him  was  when  he  left  for  Europe  with, 
his  wife  for  a  pleasure  trip  of  unknown  duration.  It 
looked  so  dark  and  hopeless  to  her,  all  of  it.  Had 
Bonner  pressed  his  demands  upon  her  at  the  end  of 
the  visit  in  Boston,  it  is  possible — more  than  possi 
ble — that  she  would  have  faltered  in  her  resolution. 
After  all,  why  should  she  deprive  herself  of  happiness 
if  it  was  held  out  to  her  with  the  promise  that  it 
should  never  end? 

The  summer  turned  steaming  hot  in  the  lowlands 
•about  Tinkletown,  but  in  the  great  hills  across  the 
river  the  air  was  cool,  bright,  and  invigorating. 
People  began  to  hurry  to  their  country  homes  from 
the  distant  cities.  Before  the  month  was  old,  a  score 
or  more  of  beautiful  places  were  opened  and  filled 


264       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

with  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  rich.  Lazily  they 
drifted  and  drove  and  walked  through  the  wonderful 
hills,  famed  throughout  the  world,  and  lazily  they 
wondered  why  the  rest  of  the  world  lived.  In  the 
hills  now  were  the  Randalls,  the  Farnsworths,  the 
Brackens,  the  Brewsters,  the  Van  Wagenens,  the 
Rolfes  and  a  host  of  others.  Tinkletown  saw  them  oc 
casionally  as  they  came  jaunting  by  in  their  traps  and 
brakes  and  automobiles — but  it  is  extremely  doubtful 
if  they  saw  Tinkletown  in  passing. 

Anderson  Crow  swelled  and  blossomed  in  the  radi 
ance  of  his  own  importance.  In  his  old  age  he  was  be 
coming  fastidious.  Only  in  the  privacy  of  his  own 
back  yard  did  he  go  without  the  black  alpaca  coat;  he 
was  beginning  to  despise  the  other  days,  when  he  had 
gone  coatless  from  dawn  till  dark,  on  the  street  or  off. 
His  badges  were  pinned  neatly  to  his  lapel  and  not 
to  his  suspenders,  as  in  the  days  of  yore.  His  dignity 
was  the  same,  but  the  old  sense  of  irritation  was  very 
much  modified.  In  these  new  days  he  was  considerate 
— and  patronising.  Was  he  not  one  of  the  wealthiest 
men  in  town — with  his  six  thousand  dollars  laid  by? 
Was  he  not  its  most  honoured  citizen,  not  excepting 
the  mayor  and  selectmen  ?  Was  he  not,  above  all,  a 
close  friend  of  the  Bonners? 

The  Bonners  were  to  spend  August  in  the  Con 
gressman's  home  across  the  big  river.  This  fact 
alone  was  enough  to  stir  the  Crow  establishment  to  its 
most  infinitesimal  roots.  Rosalie  was  to  be  one  of 
the  guests  at  the  house  party,  but  her  foster-sisters 
were  not  the  kind  to  be  envious.  They  revelled  with 


The  Mysterious  Questioner 


265 


her    in    the  preparations    for    that    new    season    of 
delight. 

With  the  coming  of  the  Bonners,  Anderson  once 
more  revived  his  resolution  to  unravel  the  mystery 
attending  Rosalie's  birth.  For  some  months  this 
ambition  had  lain  dormant,  but  now,  with  the  ap 
proach  of  the  man  she  loved,  the  old  marshal's  devo 
tion  took  fire  and  he  swore  daily 'that  the  mystery 
should  be  cleared  "whether  it  wanted  to  be  or  not." 


He  put  poor  old  Alf  Reesling  through  the  "sweat 
box"  time  and  again,  and  worthless  Tom  Folly  had 
many  an  unhappy  night,  wondering  why  the  marshal 
was  shadowing  him  so  persistently. 

"Alf,"  demanded  Anderson  during  one  of  the  ses 
sions,  "where  were  you  on  the  night  of  February  18, 
1883?  Don't  hesitate.  Speak  up.  Where  were 
you?  Aha,  you  cain't  answer.  That  looks  suspicious." 


266        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"You  bet  I  c'n  answer,"  said  Alf  bravely,  blinking 
his  blear  eyes.  "I  was  in  Tinkletown." 

"What  were  you  doin'  that  night?" 

"I  was  sleepin'." 

"At  what  time?     Keerful  now,  don't  lie." 

"What  time  o'  night  did  they  leave  her  on  your 
porch?"  demanded  Alf  in  turn. 

"It  was  jest  half  past  'leven." 

"You're  right,  Anderson.  That's  jest  the  time  I  was 
asleep." 

"C'n  you  prove  it?    Got  witnesses?" 

"Yes,  but  they  don't  remember  the  night." 

"Then  it  may  go  hard  with  you.  Alf,  I  still  believe 
you  had  somethin'  to  do  with  that  case." 

"I  didn't,  Anderson,  so  help  me." 

"Well,  doggone  it,  somebody  did,"  roared  the  mar 
shal.  "If  it  wasn't  you,  who  was  it?  Answer  that,  sir." 

"Why,  consarn  you,  Anderson  Crow,  I  didn't  have 
any  spare  children  to  leave  around  on  doorsteps.  I've 
allus  had  trouble  to  keep  from  leavin'  myself  there. 
Besides,  it  was  a  woman  that  left  her,  wasn't  it? 
Well,  consarn  it,  I'm  not  a  woman,  am  I?  Look  at 
my  whiskers,  gee  whiz  !  I " 

"I  didn't  say  you  left  the  baskit,  Alf;  I  only  said 
you'd  somethin'  to  do  with  it.  I  remember  that  there 
was  a  strong  smell  of  liquor  around  the  place  that 
night."  In  an  instant  Anderson  was  sniffing  the  air. 
"Consarn  ye,  the  same  smell  as  now — yer  drunk." 

"Tom  Folly  drinks,  too,"  protested  Alf.  "He  drinks 
Martini  cocktails." 

"Don't  you?" 


The  Mysterious  Questioner  267 

"Not  any  more.  The  last  time  I  ordered  one  was  in 
a  Dutch  eatin'  house  up  to  Boggs  City.  The  waiter 
couldn't  speak  a  word  of  English,  an'  that's  the  rea 
son  I  got  so  full.  Every  time  I  ordered  'dry  Martini' 
he  brought  me  three.  He  didn't  know  how  to  spell 
it.  No,  sir,  Anderson;  I'm  not  the  woman  you  want. 
I  was  at  home  asleep  that  night.  I  remember  jest  as 
well  as  anything,  that  I  said  before  goin'  to  bed  that 
it  was  a  good  night  to  sleep.  I  remember  lookin'  at 
the  kitchen  clock  an'  seein'  it  was  jest  eighteen  minutes 
after  eleven.  'Nen  I  said " 

"That'll  be  all  for  to-day,  Alf,"  interrupted  the 
questioner,  his  gaze  suddenly  centering  on  something 
down  the  street.  "You've  told  me  that  six  hundred 
times  in  the  last  twenty  years.  Come  on,  I  see  the 
boys  pitchin'  horseshoes  up  by  the  blacksmith  shop. 
I'll  pitch  you  a  game  fer  the  seegars." 

"I  cain't  pay  if  I  lose,"  protested  Alf. 

"I  know  it,"  said  Anderson;  "I  don't  expect  you  to." 

The  first  day  that  Bonner  drove  over  in  the  automo 
bile,  to  transplant  Rosalie  in  the  place  across  the  river, 
found  Anderson  full  of  a  new  and  startling  sensation. 
He  stealthily  drew  the  big  sunburnt  young  man  into 
the  stable,  far  from  the  house.  Somehow,  in  spite  of 
his  smiles,  Bonner  was  looking  older  and  more  serious. 
There  was  a  set,  determined  expression  about  his 
mouth  and  eyes  that  struck  Anderson  as  new. 

"Say,  Wick,"  began  the  marshal  mysteriously,  "I'm 
up  a  stump." 

"What?    Another?" 

"No;  jest  the  same  one.    I  almost  got  track  of  some- 


268        The  "Daughter  af  Anderson  Crow 

thin'  to-day — not  two  hours  ago.  I  met  a  man  out 
yander  near  the  cross-roads  that  I'm  sure  I  seen  aroun' 
here  about  the  time  Rosalie  was  left  on  the  porch. 
An'  the  funny  part  of  it  was,  he  stopped  me  an'  ast 
me  about  her.  Doggone,  I  wish  I'd  ast  him  his 
name." 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  cried  Bonner,  all  interest. 
"Asked  about  her?  Was  he  a  stranger?" 

"I  think  he  was.  Leastwise,  he  said  he  hadn't  been 
aroun'  here  fer  more'n  twenty  year.  Y'  see,  it  was 
this  way.  I  was  over  to  Lem  Hudlow's  to  ask  if  he 
had  any  hogs  stole  last  night — Lem  lives  nigh  the 
poorhouse,  you  know.  He  said  he  hadn't  missed  any 
an'  ast  me  if  any  hogs  had  been  found.  I  tole  him  no, 
not  that  I  knowed  of,  but  I  jest  thought  I'd  ask;  I 
thought  mebby  he'd  had  some  stole.  You  never  c'n 
tell,  you  know,  an'  it  pays  to  be  attendin'  to  business 
all  the  time.  Well,  I  was  drivin'  back  slow  when  up 
rode  a  feller  on  horseback.  He  was  a  fine-lookin'  man 
'bout  fifty  year  old,  I  reckon,  an'  was  dressed  in  all 
them  new-fangled  ridin'  togs.  'Ain't  this  Mr.  Crow, 
my  old  friend,  the  detective?'  said  he.  'Yes,  sir,'  said 
I.  'I  guess  you  don't  remember  me,'  says  he.  I  told 
him  I  did,  but  I  lied.  It  wouldn't  do  fer  him  to  think 
I  didn't  know  him  an'  me  a  detective,  don't  y'  see  ? 

"We  chatted  about  the  weather  an'  the  crops,  him 
ridin'  longside  the  buckboard.  Doggone,  his  face 
was  familiar,  but  I  couldn't  place  it.  Finally,  he 
leaned  over  an'  said,  solemn-like :  'Have  you  still  got 
the  little  girl  that  was  left  on  your  porch?'  You  bet 
I  jumped  when  he  said  that.  'Yes,'  says  I,  'but  she 


The  Mysterious  Questioner  269 

ain't  a  little  girl  now.  She's  growed  up.'  'Is  she 
purty?'  he  ast.  'Yes,'  says  I,  'purty  as  a  speckled 
pup !'  'I'd  like  to  see  her,'  he  said.  'I  hear  she  was 
a  beautiful  baby.  I  hope  she  is  very,  very  happy.' 
'What's  that  to  you?'  says  I,  sharp-like.  'I  am  very 
much  interested  in  her,  Mr.  Crow,'  he  answered. 
'Poor  child,  I  have  had  her  in  mind  for  a  long  time,' 
he  went  on  very  solemn.  I  begin  to  suspect  right 
away  that  he  had  a  lot  to  do  with  her  affairs.  Some 
how,  I  couldn't  help  thinkin'  I'd  seen  him  in  Tinkle- 
town  about  the  time  she  was  dropped — left,  I  mean. 

"  'You  have  given  her  a  good  eddication,  I  hope,' 
said  he.  'Yes,  she's  got  the  best  in  town,'  said  I. 
'The  thousand  dollars  came  all  right  every  year?' 
'Every  February.'  'I  should  like  to  see  her  some 
time,  if  I  may,  without  her  knowin'  it,  Mr.  Crow.' 
'An'  why  that  way,  sir?'  demanded  I.  'It  would 
probably  annoy  her  if  she  thought  I  was  regardin'  her 
as  an  object  of  curiosity,'  said  he.  'Tell  her  fer  me,' 
he  went  on'  gittin1  ready  to  whip  up,  'that  she  has 
an  unknown  friend  who  would  give  anything  he  has 
to  help  her.'  Goshed,  if  he  didn't  put  the  gad 
to  his  horse  an'  gallop  off  'fore  I  could  say  another 
word.  I  was  goin'  to  ask  him  a  lot  of  questions, 
too." 

"Can't  you  remember  where  and  under  what  circum 
stances  you  saw  him  before  ?"  cried  Bonner,  very  much 
excited. 

"I'm  goin'  to  try  to  think  it  up  to-night.  He  was  a 
rich-lookin'  feller  an'  he  had  a  heavy  black  band 
aroun'  one  of  his  coat  sleeves.  Wick,  I  bet  he's  the 


270        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

man  we  want.  I've  made  up  my  mind  'at  he's  her 
father!" 

Bonner  impatiently  wormed  all  the  information  pos 
sible  out  of  the  marshal,  especially  as  to  the  stranger's 
looks,  voice,  the  direction  taken  when  they  parted 
company  and  then  dismally  concluded  that  an  excel 
lent  opportunity  had  been  hopelessly  lost.  Anderson 
said,  in  cross-examination,  that  the  stranger  had  told 
him  he  "was  leavin'  at  once  fer  New  York  and  then 
going  to  Europe."  His  mother  had  died  recently. 

"I'll  try  to  head  him  off  at  Boggs  City,"  said  Bon 
ner;  and  half  an  hour  later  he  was  off  at  full  speed 
in  the  big  machine  for  the  county  seat,  a  roundabout 
way  to  Bonner  Place.  The  New  York  train  had  gone, 
but  no  one  had  seen  a  man  answering  the  description 
of  Anderson's  interviewer. 

"I'm  sorry,  Rosalie,"  said  Bonner  some  time  later. 
He  was  taking  her  for  a  spin  in  the  automobile.  "It 
was  a  forlorn  hope,  and  it  is  also  quite  probable  that 
Mr.  Crow's  impressions  are  wrong.  The  man  may 
have  absolutely  no  connection  with  the  matter.  I'll 
admit  it  looks  interesting,  his  manner  and  his  ques 
tions,  and  there  is  a  chance  that  he  knows  the  true 
story.  In  any  event,  he  did  not  go  to  New  York  to 
day  and  he  can't  get  another  train  until  to-morrow. 
I'll  pick  up  Mr.  Crow  in  the  morning  and  we'll  run 
up  here  to  have  a  look  at  him  if  he  appears." 

"I  think  it  is  a  wild  goose  chase,  Wicker,"  Rosalie 
said  despairingly.  "Daddy  Crow  has  done  such 
things  before." 

"But  this  seems  different.    The  man's  actions  were 


IT    WAS    A    WISE,     DISCREET    OLD    OAK 


The  Mysterious  Questioner  271 

curious.  He  must  have  had  some  reason  for  being  in 
terested  in  you.  I  am  absolutely  wild  with  eagerness 
to  solve  this  mystery,  Rosalie.  It  means  life  to  me." 

"Oh,  if  you  only  could  do  it,"  she  cried  so  fervently, 
that  his  heart  leaped  with  pity  for  her. 

"I  love  you,  Rosalie.  I  would  give  my  whole  life  to 
make  you  happy.  Listen,  dearest — don't  turn  away 
from  me!  Are  you  afraid  of  me?"  He  was  almost 
wailing  it  into  her  ear. 

"I — I  was  only  thinking  of  the  danger,  Wicker.  You 
are  not  watching  the  road,"  she  said,  flushing  a  deep 
red.  He  laughed  gaily  for  the  first  time  in  months. 

"It  is  a  wide  road  and  clear,"  he  said  jubilantly. 
"We  are  alone  and  we  are  merely  drifting.  The  ma 
chine  is  alive  with  happiness.  Rosalie — Rosalie,  I 
could  shout  for  joy !  You  do  love  me  ?  You  will  be 
my  wife?" 

She  was  white  and  silent  and  faint  with  the  joy  of  it 
all  and  the  pain  of  it  all.  Joy  in  the  full  knowledge 
that  he  loved  her  and  had  spoken  in  spite  of  the  cloud 
that  enveloped  her,  pain  in  the  certainty  that  she  could 
not  accept  the  sacrifice.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  star 
ing  straight  down  the  broad  road  over  which  they 
were  rolling. 

"Wicker,  you  must  not  ask  me  now,"  she  said  at  last, 
bravely  and  earnestly.  "It  is  sweet  to  know  that  you 
love  me.  It  is  life  to  me — yes,  life,  Wicker.  But, 
don't  you  see  ?  No,  no !  You  must  not  expect  it. 
You  must  not  ask  it.  Don't,  don't,  dear !"  she  cried, 
drawing  away  as  he  leaned  toward  her,  passion  in  his 
eyes,  triumph  in  his  face. 


272        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"But  we  love  each  other !"  he  cried.  "What  matters 
the  rest?  I  want  you — you!" 

"Have  you  considered?  Have  you  thought?  I 
have,  a  thousand  times,  a  thousand  bitter  thoughts.  I 
cannot,  I  will  not  be  your — your  wife,  Wicker, 
until " 

In  vain  he  argued,  pleaded,  commanded.  She  was 
firm  and  she  felt  she  was  right  if  not  just.  Under 
neath  it  all  lurked  the  fear,  the  dreadful  fear  that  she 
may  have  been  a  child  of  love,  the  illegitimate  off 
spring  of  passion.  It  was  the  weight  that  crushed  her 
almost  to  lifelessness;  it  was  the  bar  sinister. 

"No,  Wicker,  I  mean  it,"  she  said  in  the  end  reso 
lutely.  "Not  until  I  can  give  you  a  name  in  exchange 
for  your  own." 

"Your  name  shall  one  day  be  Bonner  if  I  have  to 
wreck  the  social  system  of  the  whole  universe  to  un 
cover  another  one  for  you." 

The  automobile  had  been  standing,  by  some  extraor 
dinary  chance,  in  the  cool  shade  of  a  great  oak  for  ten 
minutes  or  more,  but  it  was  a  wise,  discreet  old  oak. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

The  Hemisphere  Train  Robbery 

ANDERSON  CROW  lived  at  the  extreme  south  end  of 
Tinkletown's  principal  thoroughfare.  The  "cala 
boose"  was  situated  at  the  far  end  of  Main  Street,  at 
least  half  a  mile  separating  the  home  of  the  law  and 
the  home  of  the  lawless.  Marshal  Crow's  innate  love 
for  the  spectacular  alone  explains  the  unneighbourli- 
ness  of  the  two  establishments.  He  felt  an  inward 
glory  in  riding  or  walking  the  full  length  of  the  street, 
and  he  certainly  had  no  reason  to  suspect  the  populace 
of  disregarding  the  outward  glory  he  presented. 

The  original  plan  of  the  merchantry  comprehended 
the  erection  of  the  jail  in  close  proximity  to  the  home 
of  its  chief  official,  but  Mr.  Crow  put  his  foot  flatly 
and  ponderously  upon  the  scheme.  With  the  dignity 
which  made  him  noticeable,  he  said  he'd  "be  dog- 
goned  ef  he  wanted  to  have  people  come  to  his  own 
dooryard  to  be  arrested."  By  which,  it  may  be  in 
ferred,  that  he  expected  the  evil-doer  to  choose  his 
own  arresting  place. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crow  were  becoming  thrifty,  in  view 
of  the  prospect  that  confronted  them,  to  wit:  The  pos 
sible  marriage  of  Rosalie  and  the  cutting  off  of  the 
yearly  payments.  As  she  was  to  be  absent  for  a  full 
month  or  more,  Anderson  conceived  the  idea  of  ad 
vertising  for  a  lodger  and  boarder.  By  turning  Ros- 


274       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

coe  out  of  his  bed,  they  obtained  a  spare  room  that 
looked  down  upon  the  peony  beds  beyond  the  side 
"portico." 

Mr.  Crow  was  lazily  twisting  his  meagre  chin  whis 
kers  one  morning  soon  after  Rosalie's  departure.  He 
was  leaning  against  the  town  pump  in  front  of  the 
post-office,  the  sun  glancing  impotently  off  the  bright 
badge  on  the  lapel  of  his  alpaca  coat.  A  stranger 


came  forth  from  the  post-office  and  approached  the 
marshal. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Crow?"  he  asked,  with  considerable 
deference. 

"It  is,  sir." 

"They  tell  me  you  take  lodgers." 

"Depends." 

"My  name  is  Gregory,  Andrew  Gregory,  and  I  am 


The  Hemisphere  Train  Robbery         275 

here  to  canvass  the  neighbourhood  in  the  interest  of 
the  Human  Life  Insurance  Company  of  Penobscot. 
If  you  need  references,  I  can  procure  them  from  New 
York  or  Boston." 

The  stranger  was  a  tall,  lean-faced  man  of  forty  or 
forty-five,  well  dressed,  with  a  brusque  yet  pleasant 
manner  of  speech.  His  moustache  and  beard  were 
black  and  quite  heavy.  Mr.  Crow  eyed  him  quietly 
for  a  moment. 

"I  don't  reckon  I'll  ask  fer  references.  Our  rates 
are  six  dollars  a  week,  board  an'  room.  Childern 
bother  you?" 

"Not  at  all.    Have  you  any?" 

"Some,  more  or  less.    They're  mostly  grown." 

"I  will  take  board  and  room  for  two  weeks,  at  least," 
said  Mr.  Gregory,  who  seemed  to  be  a  man  of  action. 

For  almost  a  week  the  insurance  agent  plied  his 
vocation  assiduously  but  fruitlessly.  The  farmers  and 
the  citizens  of  Tinkletown  were  slow  to  take  up  insur 
ance.  They  would  talk  crops  and  politics  with  the 
obliging  Mr.  Gregory,  but  that  was  all.  And  yet, 
his  suavity  won  for  him  many  admirers.  There  were 
not  a  few  who  promised  to  give  him  their  insurance 
if  they  concluded  to  "take  any  out."  Only  one  man 
in  town  was  willing  to  be  insured,  and  he  was  too  old 
to  be  comforting.  Mr.  Calligan  was  reputed  to  be 
one  hundred  and  three  years  of  age;  and  he  wanted 
the  twenty-year  endowment  plan.  Gregory  popular 
ised  himself  at  the  Crow  home  by  paying  for  his  room 
in  advance.  Moreover,  he  was  an  affable  chap  with  a 
fund  of  good  stories  straight  from  Broadway.  At 


276        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

the  post-office  and  in  Lamson's  store  he  was  soon 
established  as  a  mighty  favourite.  Even  the  women 
who  came  to  make  purchases  in  the  evening, — a 
hitherto  unknown  custom, — lingered  outside  the  circle 
on  the  porch,  revelling  in  the  second  edition  of  the 
"Arabian  Nights." 

"Our  friend,  the  detective  here,"  he  said,  one  night 
at  the  close  of  the  first  week,  "tells  me  that  we  are  to 
have  a  show  in  town  next  week.  I  haven't  seen  any 
posters." 

"Mark  Riley's  been  goin'  to  put  up  them  bills  sence 
day  'fore  yesterday,"  said  Anderson  Crow,  with  exas 
peration  in  his  voice,  "an  he  ain't  done  it  yet.  The 
agent  fer  the  troupe  left  'em  here  an'  hired  Mark, 
but  he's  so  thunderation  slow  that  he  won't  paste  'em 
up  'til  after  the  show's  been  an'  gone.  I'll  give  him  a 
talkin'  to  to-morrer  ." 

"What-fer  show  is  it?"  asked  Jim  Borum. 

"Somethih'  like  a  circus  on'y  'tain't  one,"  said  Ander 
son.  "They  don't  pertend  to  have  animals." 

"Don't  carry  a  menagerie,  I  see,"  remarked  Gregory. 

"  'Pears  that  way,"  said  Anderson,  slowly  analysing 
the  word. 

"I  understand  it  is  a  stage  performance  under  a 
tent,"  volunteered  the  postmaster. 

"That's  what  it  is,"  said  Harry  Squires,  the  editor, 
with  a  superior  air.  "They  play  'As  You  Like  It,'  by 
Shakespeare.  It's  a  swell  show.  We  got  out  the- 
hand  bills  over  at  the  office.  They'll  be  distributed 
in  town  to-morrow,  and  a  big  batch  of  them  will  be 
sent  over  to  the  summer  places  across  the  river.  The 


The  Hemisphere  Train  Robbery         277 

advance  agent  says  it  is  a  high-class  performance  and 
will  appeal  particularly  to  the  rich  city  people  up  in 
the  mountains.  It's  a  sort  of  open-air  affair,  you 
know."  And  then  Mr.  Squires  was  obliged  to  explain 
to  his  fellow-townsmen  all  the  known  details  in  con 
nection  with  the  approaching  performance  of  "As 
You  Like  It"  by  the  Boothby  Company,  set  for 
Tinkletown  on  the  following  Thursday  night.  Hap- 
good's  Grove  had  been  selected  by  the  agent  as  the 
place  in  which  the  performance  should  be  given. 

"Don't  they  give  an  afternoon  show?"  asked  Mrs. 
Williams. 

"Sure  not,"  said  Harry  curtly.    "It  isn't  a  museum." 

"Of  course  not,"  added  Anderson  Crow  reflectively. 
"It's  a  troupe." 

The  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  Mark  Riley 
fared  forth  with  paste  and  brush.  Before  noon,  the 
board  fences,  barns  and  blank  walls  of  Tinkletown 
flamed  with  great  red  and  blue  letters,  twining  in  and 
about  the  portraits  of  Shakespeare,  Manager 
Boothby,  Rosalind,  Orlando,  and  an  extra  king  or  two 
in  royal  robes.  A  dozen  small  boys  spread  the  hand 
bills  from  the  Banner  presses,  and  Tinkletown  was 
stirred  by  the  excitement  of  a  sensation  that  had  not 
been  experienced  since  Forepaugh's  circus  visited  the 
county  seat  three  years  before.  It  went  without  say 
ing  that  Manager  Boothby  would  present  "As  You 
Like  It"  with  an  "unrivalled  cast."  He  had  "an  all- 
star  production,"  direct  from  "the  leading  theatres  of 
the  universe." 

When  Mark  Riley  started  out  again  in  the  afternoon 


278        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

for  a  second  excursion  with  paste  and  brush,  "slapping 
up"  small  posters  with  a  celerity  that  bespoke  extreme 
interest  on  his  part,  the  astonished  populace  feared 


that  he  was  announcing  a  postponement  of  the  per 
formance.  Instead  of  that,  however,  he  was  herald 
ing  the  fact  that  the  Hemisphere  Trunk  Line  and  Ex 
press  Company  would  gladly  pay  ten  thousand  dol- 


The  Hemisphere  Train  Robbery         279 

lars  reward  for  the  "apprehension  and  capture"  of 
the  men  who  robbed  one  of  its  richest  trains  a  few 
nights  before,  seizing  as  booty  over  sixty  thousand 
dollars  in  money,  besides  killing  two  messengers  in 
cold  blood.  The  great  train  robbery  occurred  in  the 
western  part  of  the  State,  hundreds  of  miles  from 
Tinkletown,  but  nearly  all  of  its  citizens  had  read  ac 
counts  of  the  deed  in  the  weekly  paper  from  Boggs 
City. 

"I  seen  the  item  about  it  in  Mr.  Gregory's  New  York 
paper,"  said  Anderson  Crow  to  the  crowd  at  Lam- 
son's. 

"Gee  whiz,  it  must  'a'  been  a  peach !"  said  Isaac  Por 
ter,  open-mouthed  and  eager  for  details.  Whereupon 
Marshal  Crow  related  the  story  of  the  crime  which 
stupefied  the  world  on  the  morning  of  July  3ist. 
The  express  had  been  held  up  in  an  isolated  spot  by  a 
half-dozen  masked  men.  A  safe  had  been  shattered 
and  the  contents  confiscated,  the  perpetrators  vanish 
ing  as  completely  as  if  aided  by  Satan  himself.  The 
authorities  were  baffled.  A  huge  reward  was  offered 
in  the  hope  that  it  might  induce  some  discontented  un 
derling  in  the  band  to  expose  his  comrades. 

"Are  you  goin'  after  'em,  Anderson?"  asked  old  Mr. 
Borton,  with  unfailing  faith  in  the  town's  chief  officer. 

"Them  fellers  is  in  Asia  by  this  time,"  vouchsafed 
Mr.  Crow  scornfully,  forgetting  that  less  than  a  week 
had  elapsed  since  the  robbery.  He  flecked  a  fly  from 
his  detective's  badge  and  then  struck  viciously  at  the 
same  insect  when  it  straightway  attacked  his  G.  A.  R. 
emblem. 


2  8  o       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  Mr.  Lamson.  "Like  as  not 
they're  right  here  in  this  State,  mebby  in  this  county. 
You  can't  tell  about  them  slick  desperadoes.  Hello, 
Harry!  Has  anything  more  been  heard  from  the 
train  robbers?"  Harry  Squires  approached  the  group 
with  something  like  news  in  his  face. 

"I  should  say  so,"  he  said.  "The  darned  cusses 
robbed  the  State  Express  last  night  at  Vanderskoop 
and  got  away  with  thirteen  hundred  dollars.  Say, 
they're  wonders !  The  engineer  says  they're  only  five 
of  them." 

"Why,  gosh  dern  it,  Vanderskoop's  only  the  fourth 
station  west  of  Boggs  City!"  exclaimed  Anderson 
Crow,  pricking  up  his  official  ear.  "How  in  thunder 
do  you  reckon  they  got  up  here  in  such  a  short  time?" 

"They  probably  stopped  off  on  their  way  back  from 
Asia,"  drily  remarked  Mr.  Lamson;  but  it  passed 
unnoticed. 

"Have  you  heard  anything  more  about  the  show, 
Harry  ?"  asked  Jim  Borum.  "Is  she  sure  to  be  here  ?" 
What  did  Tinkletown  care  about  the  train  robbers 
when  a  "show"  was  headed  that  way? 

"Sure.  The  press  comments  are  very  favourable," 
said  Harry.  "They  all  say  that  Miss  Marmaduke, 
who  plays  Rosalind,  is  great.  We've  got  a  cut  of  her 
and,  say,  she's  a  beauty.  I  can  see  myself  sitting  in 
the  front  row  next  Thursday  night,  good  and  proper." 

"Say,  Anderson,  I  think  it's  a  dern  shame  fer  Mark 
Riley  to  go  'round  pastin'  them  reward  bills  over  the 
show  pictures,"  growled  Isaac  Porter.  "He  ain't 
got  a  bit  o'  sense." 


The  Hemisphere  Train  Robbery         281 

With  one  accord  the  crowd  turned  to  inspect  two 
adjacent  bill  boards.  Mark  had  either  malignantly 
or  insanely  pasted  the  reward  notices  over  the  nether 
extremities  of  Rosalind  as  she  was  expected  to  ap 
pear  in  the  Forest  of  Arden.  There  was  a  period  of 
reflection  on  the  part  of  an  outraged  constituency. 

"I  don't  see  how  he's  goin'  to  remove  off  them 
reward  bills  without  scraping  off  her  legs  at  the  same 
time,"  mused  Anderson  Crow  in  perplexity.  Two 
housewives  of  Tinkletown  suddenly  deserted  the 
group  and  entered  the  store.  And  so  it  was  that  the 
train  robbers  were  forgotten  for  the  time  being. 

But  Marshal  Crow's  reputation  as  a  horse-thief 
taker  and  general  suppressor  of  crime  constantly  up 
braided  him.  It  seemed  to  call  upon  him  to  take 
steps  toward  the  capture  of  the  train  robbers.  All 
that  afternoon  he  reflected.  Tinkletown,  seeing  his 
mood,  refrained  from  breaking  in  upon  it.  He  was 
allowed  to  stroke  his  whiskers  in  peace  and  to  think 
to  his  heart's  content.  By  nightfall  his  face  had  be 
come  an  inscrutable  mask,  and  then  it  was  known  that 
the  President  of  Bramble  County's  Horse-Thief  De 
tective  Association  was  determined  to  fathom  the 
great  problem.  Stealthily  he  went  up  to  the  great 
attic  in  his  home  and  inspected  his  "disguises."  In 
some  far-off  period  of  his  official  career  he  had  pur 
chased  the  most  amazing  collection  of  false  beards, 
wigs  and  garments  that  any  stranded  comedian  ever 
disposed  of  at  a  sacrifice.  He  tried  each  separate 
article,  seeking  for  the  best  individual  effect;  then 
he  tried  them  collectively.  It  would  certainly  have 


282        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

been  impossible  to  recognise  him  as  Anderson  Crow. 
In  truth,  no  one  could  safely  have  identified  him  as 
a  human  being. 

"I'm  goin'  after  them  raskils,"  he  announced  to 
Andrew  Gregory  and  the  whole  family,  as  he  came 
down  late  to  take  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  supper 
table. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  let  'em  show  here,  pop?"  asked 
Roscoe  in  distress. 

"Show  here?    What  air  you  talkin'  about?" 

"He  means  the  train  robbers,  Roscoe,"  explained 
the  lad's  mother.  The  boy  breathed  again. 

"They  are  a  dangerous  lot,"  volunteered  Gregory, 
who  had  been  in  Albany  for  two  days.  "The  papers 
are  full  of  their  deeds.  Cutthroats  of  the  worst 
character." 

,  "I'd  let  them  alone,  Anderson,"  pleaded  his  wife. 
"If  you  corner  them,  they'll  shoot,  and  it  would  be 
jest  like  you  to  follow  them  right  into  their  lair." 

"Consarn  it,  Eva,  don't  you  s'pose  that  I  c'n  shoot, 
too?"  snorted  Anderson.  "What  you  reckon  I've 
been  keepin'  them  loaded  revolvers  out  in  the  barn 
all  these  years  fer?  Jest  fer  ornaments?  Not  much ! 
They're  to  shoot  with,  ef  anybody  asks  you.  Thun- 
deration,  Mr.  Gregory,  you  ain't  no  idee  how  a  feller 
can  be  handicapped  by  a  timid  wife  an'  a  lot  o'  fool 
childern.  I'm  almost  a f card  to  turn  'round  fer  fear 
they'll  be  skeered  to  death  fer  my  safety." 

"You  cut  yourself  with  a  razor  once  when  ma  told 
you  not  to  try  to  shave  the  back  of  your  neck  by  your 
self,"  said  one  of  the  girls.  "She  wanted  you  to  let 


The  Hemisphere  Train  Robbery         283 

Mr.  Beck  shave  it  for  you,  but  you  wouldn't  have  it 
that  way." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  want  an  undertaker  shavin'  my 
neck?  I'm  not  that  anxious  to  be  shaved.  Beck's 
the  undertaker,  Mr.  Gregory." 

"Well,  he  runs  the  barber  shop,  too,"  insisted  the  girl. 

During  the  next  three  days  Tinkletown  saw  but  lit 
tle  of  its  marshal,  fire  chief  and  street  commissioner. 
That  triple  personage  was  off  on  business  of  great 
import.  Early,  each  morning,  he  mysteriously  stole 
away  to  the  woods,  either  up  or  down  the  river,  car 
rying  a  queer  bundle  under  the  seat  of  his  "buck- 
board."  Two  revolvers,  neither  of  which  had  been 
discharged  for  ten  years,  reposed  in  a  box  fastened 
to  the  dashboard.  Anderson  solemnly  but  positively 
refused  to  allow  any  one  to  accompany  him,  nor 
would  he  permit  any  one  to  question  him.  Farmers 
coming  to  town  spoke  of  seeing  him  in  the  lanes  and 
in  the  woods,  but  he  had  winked  genially  when  they 
had  asked  what  he  was  trailing. 

"He's  after  the  train  robbers,"  explained  all  Tinkle- 
town  soberly.  Whereupon  the  farmers  and  their 
wives  did  not  begrudge  Anderson  Crow  the  chicken 
dinners  he  had  eaten  with  them,  nor  did  they  blame 
him  for  bothering  the  men  in  the  fields.  It  was 
sufficient  that  he  found  excuse  to  sleep  in  the  shade  of 
their  trees  during  his  still  hunt. 
"Got  any  track  of  'em?"  asked  George  Ray  one 
evening,  stopping  at  Anderson's  back  gate  to  watch 
the  marshal  unhitch  his  thankful  nag.  Patience  had 
ceased  to  be  a  virtue  with  George. 


284        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Any  track  of  who?"  asked  Mr.  Crow  with  a  fine 
show  of  innocence. 

"The  robbers." 

UI  ain't  been  trackin'  robbers,  George." 

"What  in  thunder  have  you  been  trackin'  all  over 
the  country  every  day,  then?" 

"I'm  breakin'  this  colt,"  calmly  replied  the  marshal, 
with  a  mighty  wink  at  old  Betty,  whom  he  had  driven 
to  the  same  buckboard  for  twenty  years.  As  George 
departed  with  an  insulted  snort,  Andrew  Gregory 
came  from  the  barn,  where  he  had  been  awaiting  the 
return  of  Mr.  Crow." 

"I'm  next  to  something  big,"  he  announced  in  a 
low  tone,  first  looking  in  all  directions  to  see  that 
no  one  was  listening. 

"Gosh!     Did  you  land  Mr.  Farnsworth?" 

"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  insurance,"  hastily  ex 
plained  the  agent.  "I've  heard  something  of  vast 
importance  to  you." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  the  troupe  has  busted?" 

"No — no;  it  is  in  connection  with — with — "  and 
here  Mr.  Gregory  leaned  forward  and  whispered 
something  in  Anderson's  ear.  Mr.  Crow  promptly 
stopped  dead  still  in  his  tracks,  his  eyes  bulging. 
Betty,  who  was  being  led  to  the  water  trough,  being 
blind  and  having  no  command  to  halt,  proceeded 
to  bump  forcibly  against  her  master's  frame. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

"As  You  Like  It" 

You — don't — say — so !  Whoa  !  dang  ye  !  Cain't  you 
see  where  you're  goin',  you  old  rip?"  Betty  was 
jerked  to  a  standstill.  "What  have  you  heerd?" 
asked  Anderson,  his  voice  shaking  with  interest. 

"I  can't  tell  you  out  here,"  said  the  other  cautiously. 
"Put  up  the  nag  and  then  meet  me  in  the  pasture  out 
there.  We  can  sit  down  and  talk  and  not  be  over 
heard." 

"I  won't  be  a  minute.  Here,  you  Roscoe!  Feed 
Betty  and  water  her  first.  Step  lively,  now.  Tell 
your  ma  we'll  be  in  to  supper  when  we  git  good  an' 
ready." 

Anderson  and  Andrew  Gregory  strode  through  the 
pasture  gate  and  far  out  into  the  green  meadow. 
Once  entirely  out  of  hearing,  Gregory  stopped  and 
both  sat  down  upon  a  little  hillock.  The  agent  was 
evidently  suppressing  considerable  excitement. 

"Those  train  robbers  are  in  this  neighbourhood,"  he 
said,  breaking  a  long  silence.  Anderson  looked  be 
hind  involuntarily.  "I  don't  mean  that  they  are  in 
this  pasture,  Mr.  Crow.  You've  been  a  good  friend 
to  me,  and  I'm  inclined  to  share  the  secret  with  you. 
If  we  go  together,  we  may  divide  the  ten-thousand- 
dollar  reward,  because  I'm  quite  sure  we  can  land 
those  chaps." 


286        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"What's  your  plan?"  asked  Anderson,  turning  a 
little  pale  at  the  thought.  Before  going  any  further 
into  the  matter,  Gregory  asked  Anderson  if  he  would 
sign  a  paper  agreeing  to  divide  the  reward  equally 
with  him.  This  point  was  easily  settled,  and  then  the 
insurance  man  unfolded  his  secret. 

"I  have  a  straight  tip  from  a  friend  in  New  York 
and  he  wouldn't  steer  me  wrong.  The  truth  about 
him  is  this:  He  used  to  work  for  our  company,  but 
took  some  money  that  didn't  belong  to  him.  It  got 
him  a  sentence  in  the  pen.  He's  just  out,  and  he 
knows  a  whole  lot  about  these  robbers.  Some  of 
them  were  in  Sing  Sing  with  him.  The  leader  wanted 
him  to  join  the  gang  and  he  half-way  consented.  His 
duty  is  to  keep  the  gang  posted  on  what  the  officers 
in  New  York  are  doing.  See?" 

"Of  course,"  breathed  Anderson. 

"Well,  my  friend  wants  to  reform.  All  he  asks  is 
a  slice  of  the  reward.  If  we  capture  the  gang,  we  can 
afford  to  give  him  a  thousand  or  so,  can't  we?" 

"Of  course,"  was  the  dignified  response. 

"Here's  his  letter  to  me.  I'll  read  it  to  you."  In 
the  gathering  dusk  Gregory  read  the  letter  to  the 
marshal  of  Tinkletown.  "Now,  you  see/'  he  said, 
at  the  close  of  the  astounding  epistle,  "this  means 
that  if  we  observe  strict  secrecy,  we  may  have  the 
game  in  our  hands.  No  one  must  hear  a  word  of 
this.  They  may  have  spies  right  here  in  Tinkletown. 
We  can  succeed  only  by  keeping  our  mouths  sealed." 

"Tighter'n  beeswax,"  promised  Anderson  Crow. 

Briefly,  the  letter  to  Andrew  Gregory  was  an  ex- 


"As  Ton  Like  It"  287 

posure  of  the  plans  of  the  great  train-robber  gang, 
together  with  their  whereabouts  on  a  certain  day  to 
come.  They  were  to  swoop  down  on  Tinkletown  on 
the  night  of  the  open-air  performance  of  "As  You 
Like  It,"  and  their  most  desperate  coup  was  to  be 
the  result.  The  scheme  was  to  hold  up  and  rob  the 
entire  audience  while  the  performance  was  going  on. 
Anderson  Crow  was  in  a  cold  perspiration.  The 
performance  was  but  three  days  off,  and  he  felt  that 
he  required  three  months  for  preparation. 

"How  in  thunder  are  we  goin'  to  capture  that  awful 
gang,  jest  you  an'  me?"  he  asked,  voicing  his  doubts 
and  fears. 

"We'll  have  to  engage  help,  that's  all." 

"We'll  need  a  regiment." 

"Don't  you  think  it.  Buck  up,  old  fellow,  don't  be 
afraid." 

"Afeerd?  Me?  I  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be 
skeered.  Didn't  you  ever  hear  about  how  I  landed 
them  fellers  that  kidnaped  my  daughter  Rosalie? 
Well,  you  jest  ast  some  one  'at  knows  about  it. 
Umph !  I  guess  that  was  a  recommend  fer  bravery. 
But  these  fellers  will  be  ready  fer  us,  won't  they?" 

"We  can  trick  them  easily.  I've  been  thinking  of 
a  plan  all  afternoon.  We  don't  know  just  where 
they  are  now,  so  we  can't  rake  them  in  to-night.  We'll 
have  to  wait  until  they  come  to  us.  My  plan  is  to 
have  a  half-dozen  competent  private  detectives  up 
from  New  York.  We  can  scatter  them  through  the 
audience  next  Thursday  night,  and  when  the  right 
time  comes  we  can  land  on  every  one  of  those  fel- 


288        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

lows  like  hawks  on  spring  chickens.  I  know  the 
chief  of  a  big  private  agency  in  New  York,  and  I 
think  the  best  plan  is  to  have  him  send  up  some  good 
men.  It  won't  cost  much,  and  I'd  rather  have  those 
fearless  practical  men  here  than  all  the  rubes  you 
could  deputise.  One  of  'em  is  worth  ten  of  your  fel 
low-citizens,  Mr.  Crow,  begging  your  pardon  for 
the  remark.  You  and  I  can  keep  the  secret  and  we 
can  do  the  right  thing,  but  we  would  be  asses  to  take 
more  Tinkletown  asses  into  our  confidence.  If  you'll 
agree,  I'll  write  to  Mr.  Pinkerton  this  evening.  He 
can  have  his  men  here,  disguised  and  ready  for 
work,  by  Thursday  afternoon.  If  you  don't  mind, 
I'd  like  to  have  you  take  charge  of  the  affair,  because 
you  know  just  how  to  handle  thieves,  and  I  don't. 
What  say  you?" 

Anderson  was  ready  and  eager  to  agree  to  anything, 
but  he  hesitated  a  long  time  before  concluding  to 
take  supreme  charge  of  the  undertaking.  Mr.  Gregory 
at  once  implored  him  to  take  command.  It  meant  the 
success  of  the  venture;  anything  else  meant  failure. 

"But  how'n  thunder  am  I  to  know  the  robbers 
when  I  see  'em?"  demanded  the  marshal,  nervously 
pulling  bluegrass  up  by  the  roots. 

"You'll  know  'em  all  right,"  said  Andrew  Gregory. 

Thursday  came  and  with  it  the  "troupe."  Ander 
son  Crow  had  not  slept  for  three  nights,  he  was  so 
full  of  thrills  and  responsibility.  Bright  and  early 
that  morning  he  was  on  the  lookout  for  suspicious 
characters.  Gregory  was  to  meet  the  detectives  from 
New  York  at  half-past  seven  in  the  evening.  By 


"As  Ton  Like  It"  289 

previous  arrangement,  these  strangers  were  to  con 
gregate  casually  at  Tinkletown  Inn,  perfectly  dis 
guised  as  gentlemen,  ready  for  instructions.  The 
two  arch-plotters  had  carefully  devised  a  plan  of  ac 
tion.  Gregory  chuckled  secretly  when  he  thought 
of  the  sensation  Tinkletown  was  to  experience — and 
he  thought  of  it  often,  too. 

The  leading  members  of  Boothby's  All  Star  Com 
pany  "put  up"  at  the  Inn,  which  was  so  humble  that 
it  staggered  beneath  this  unaccustomed  weight  of 
dignity.  The  beautiful  Miss  Marmaduke  (in  real 
ity,  Miss  Cora  Miller)  was  there,  and  so  were 
Miss  Trevanian,  Miss  Gladys  Fitzmaurice,  Rich 
mond  Barrett  (privately  Jackie  Blake),  Thomas  J. 
Booth,  Francisco  Irving,  Ben  Jefferson  and  others. 
The  Inn  was  glorified.  All  Tinkletown  looked  upon 
the  despised  old  "eating  house"  with  a  reverence  that 
was  not  reluctant. 

The  manager,  a  busy  and  preoccupied  person,  who 
looked  to  be  the  lowliest  hireling  in  the  party,  came 
to  the  Inn  at  noon  and  spread  the  news  that  the  re 
served  seats  were  sold  out  and  there  was  promise 
of  a  fine  crowd.  Whereupon  there  was  rejoicing 
among  the  All  Star  Cast,  for  the  last  legs  of  the  en 
terprise  were  to  be  materially  strengthened. 

"We  won't  have  to  walk  back  home,"  announced 
Mr.  Jackie  Blake,  that  good-looking  young  chap  who 
played  Orlando. 

"Glorious  Shakespeare,  thou  art  come  to  life  again," 
said  Ben  Jefferson,  a  barn-stormer  for  fifty  years.  "I 
was  beginning  to  think  you  were  a  dead  one." 


290       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"And  no  one  will  seize  our  trunks  for  board,"  added 
Miss  Marmaduke  cheerfully.  She  was  a  very  pretty 
young  woman  and  desperately  in  love  with 
Mr.  Orlando. 

"If  any  one  seized  Orlando's  trunks,  I  couldn't  ap 
pear  in  public  to-night,"  said  Mr.  Blake.  "Orlando 
possesses  but  one  pair  of  trunks." 

"You  might  wear  a  mackintosh,"  suggested  Mr. 
Booth. 

"Or  borrow  trunks  of  the  trees,"  added  Mr.  Irving. 

"They're  off,"  growled  Mr.  Jefferson,  who  hated 
the  puns  he  did  not  make. 

"Let's  dazzle  the  town,  Cora,"  said  Jackie  Blake; 
and  before  Tinkletown  could  take  its  second  gasp 
for  breath,  the  leading  man  and  woman  were  slowly 
promenading  the  chief  and  only  thoroughfare. 

"By  ginger!  she's  a  purty  one,  ain't  she?"  mur 
mured  Ed  Higgins,  sole  clerk  at  Lamson's.  He 
stood  in  the  doorway  until  she  was  out  of  sight  and 
remained  there  for  nearly  an  hour  awaiting  her  re 
turn.  The  men  of  Tinkletown  took  but  one  look  at 
the  pretty  young  woman,  but  that  one  look  was  con 
tinuous  and  unbroken. 

"If  this  jay  town  can  turn  up  enough  money  to 
night  to  keep  us  from  stranding,  I'll  take  off  my  hat 
to  it  for  ever  more,"  said  Jackie  Blake. 

"Boothby  says  the  house  is  sold  out,"  said 
Miss  Marmaduke,  a  shade  of  anxiety  in  her  dark 
eyes.  "Oh,  how  I  wish  we  were  at  home  again." 

"I'd  rather  starve  in  New  York  than  feast  in  the 
high  hills,"  said  he  wistfully.  The  idols  to  whom 


"As  You  Like  It"  291 

Tinkletown  was  paying  homage  were  but  human, 
after  all.  For  two  months  the  Boothby  Company 
had  been  buffeted  from  pillar  to  post,  struggling  hard 
to  keep  its  head  above  water,  always  expecting  the 
crash.  The  "all-stars"  were  no  more  than  striving 
young  Thespians,  who  were  kept  playing  throughout 
the  heated  term  with  this  uncertain  enterprise,  solely 
because  necessity  was  in  command  of  their  destinies. 
It  was  not  for  them  to  enjoy  a  summer  in  ease  and 
indolence. 

"Never  mind,  dear,"  said  she,  turning  her  green 
parasol  so  that  it  obstructed  the  intense  but  compli 
mentary  gaze  of  no  less  than  a  dozen  men;  "our  luck 
will  change.  We  won't  be  barn-storming  for  ever." 

"We've  one  thing  to  be  thankful  for,  little  woman," 
said  Jackie,  his  face  brightening.  "We  go  out  again 
this  fall  in  the  same  company.  That's  luck,  isn't  it? 
We'll  be  married  as  soon  as  we  get  back  to  New 
York  and  we  won't  have  to  be  separated  for  a  whole 
season,  at  least." 

"Isn't  it  dear  to  think  of,  Jackie  sweetheart?  A 
whole  season  and  then  another,  and  then  all  of  them 
after  that?  Oh,  dear,  won't  it  be  sweet?"  It  was 
love's  young  dream  for  both  of  them. 

"Hello,  what's  this?"  exclaimed  Orlando  the 
Thousandth,  pausing  before  a  placard  which  covered 
the  lower  limbs  of  his  pictorial  partner.  "Ten 
Thousand  Dollars  reward!  Great  Scott,  Cora, 
wouldn't  I  like  to  catch  those  fellows?  Great,  eh? 
But  it's  a  desperate  gang!  The  worst  ever!" 

Just  then  both  became  conscious  of  the  fact  that 


292        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

some  one  was  scrutinising  them  intently  from  behind. 
They  turned  and  beheld  Anderson  Crow,  his  badges 
glistening. 

"How  are  you,  officer?"  said  Jackie  cheerily. 
Miss  Marmaduke,  in  her  happiness,  beamed  a  smile 
upon  the  austere  man  with  the  chin  whiskers.  An 
derson  was  past  seventy,  but  that  smile  caused  the 
intake  of  his  breath  to  almost  lift  him  from  the 
ground. 

"First  rate,  thanks;  how's  yourself?  Readin'  the 
reward  notice  ?  Lemme  tell  you  something.  There's 
goin'  to  be  somethin'  happen  tarnation  soon  that  will 
astonish  them  fellers  ef — "  but  here  Anderson  pulled 
up  with  a  jerk,  realising  that  he  was  on  the  point  of 
betraying  a  great  secret.  Afraid  to  trust  himself  in 
continued  conversation,  he  abruptly  said:  "Good 
afternoon,"  and  started  off  down  the  street,  his  ears 
tingling. 

"Queer  old  chap,  isn't  he?"  observed  Jackie,  and 
immediately  forgot  him  as  they  strolled  onward. 

That  evening  Tinkletown  swarmed  with  strangers. 
The  weather  was  fine,  and  scores  of  the  summer 
dwellers  in  the  hills  across  the  river  came  over  to  see 
the  performance,  as  the  advance  agent  had  predicted. 
Bluff  Top  Hotel  sent  a  large  delegation  of  people 
seeking  the  variety  of  life.  There  were  automobiles, 
traps,  victorias,  hay-racks,  and  "sundowns"  standing 
all  along  the  street  in  the  vicinity  of  Hapgood's 
Grove.  It  was  to  be,  in  the  expansive  language  of 
the  press  agent,  "a  cultured  audience  made  up  of 
the  elite  of  the  community." 


"As  Tou  Like  It"  293 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  a  paralysing  thought  struck 
in  upon  the  marshal's  brain.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
this  band  of  robbers  might  also  be  engaged  to  carry 
off  Rosalie  Gray.  After  all,  it  might  be  the  great 
dominant  reason  for  their  descent  upon  the  com 
munity.  Covered  with  a  perspiration  that  was  not 
caused  by  heat,  he  accosted  Wicker  Bonner,  the  min 
ute  that  gentleman  arrived  in  town.  Rosalie  went,  of 
course,  to  the  Crow  home  for  a  short  visit  with  the 
family. 

"Say,  Wick,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favour,"  said 
Anderson  eagerly,  taking  the  young  man  aside.  "I 
cain't  tell  you  all  about  it,  'cause  I'm  bound  by  a  death 
less  oath.  But,  listen,  I'm  afraid  somethin's  goin' 
to  happen  to-night.  There's  a  lot  o'  strangers  here, 
an'  I'm  nervous  about  Rosalie.  Somebody  might  try 
to  steal  her  in  the  excitement.  Now  I  want  you  to 
take  good  keer  of  her.  Don't  let  'er  out  o'  your 
sight,  an'  don't  let  anybody  git  'er  away  from  you. 
I'll  keep  my  eye  on  her,  too.  Promise  me." 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Crow.  I'll  look  out  for  her. 
That's  what  I  hope  to  do  all  the  rest  of— 

"Somethin'  's  liable  to  happen,"  Mr.  Crow  broke 
in,  and  then  quietly  slipped  away. 

Bonner  laughed  easily  at  the  old  man's  fears  and 
set  them  down  as  a  part  of  his  whimsical  nature. 
Later,  he  saw  the  old  man  near  the  entrance  as  the 
party  passed  inside  the  inclosure.  The  Bonner  party 
occupied  prominent  seats  in  front,  reserved  by  the 
marshal.  There  were  ten  in  the  group,  a  half-dozen 
young  Boston  people  completing  the  house  party. 


294 


Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 


The  side  walls  of  a  pavilion  inclosed  the  most 
beautiful  section  of  the  grove.  In  one  end  were  the 
seats,  rapidly  filling  with  people.  At  the  opposite 
end,  upon,  Mother  Earth's  green  carpet,  was  the 
stage,  lighted  dimly  by  means  of  subdued  spot  lights 
and  a  few  auxiliary  stars  on  high.  There  was  no 
scenery  save  that  provided  by  Nature  herself.  An 
orchestra  of  violins  broke  through  the  constant  hum 
of  eager  voices. 

Anderson  Crow's  heart  was  inside  the  charmed  in- 
closure,  but  his  person  was  elsewhere.  Simultane 
ously,  with  the  beginning  of  the  performance  of  "As 


You  like  It,"  he  was  in  his  own  barn-loft  confront 
ing  Andrew  Gregory  and  the  five  bewhiskered  as 
sistants  from  New  York  City.  Gregory  had  met 
the  detectives  at  the  Inn  and  had  guided  them  to 
the  marshal's  barn,  where  final  instructions  were  to  be 
given.  For  half  an  hour  the  party  discussed  plans 
with  Anderson  Crow,  speaking  in  low,  mysterious 
tones  that  rang  in  the  marshal's  ears  to  his  dying  day. 
"We've  located  those  fellows,"  asserted  Mr.  Greg 
ory  firmly.  "There  can  be  no  mistake.  They  are 
already  in  the  audience  over  there,  and  at  a  signal 


"As  Ton  Like  It"  295 

will  set  to  work  to 
hold  up  the  whole 
crowd.  We  must 
get  the  drop  on 
them,  Mr.  Crow. 
Don't  do  that ! 
You  don't  need  a 
disguise.  Keep 
those  yellow  whis 
kers  in  your 
pocket.  The  rest 
of  us  will  wear 
disguises.  These 
men  came  here  dis 
guised  because  the 
robbers  would  be 
onto  them  in  a  minute  if  they  didn't.  They  know 
every  detective's  face  in  the  land.  If  it  were  not  for 
these  beards  and  wigs  they'd  have  spotted  Pinkerton's 
men  long  ago.  Now,  you  know  your  part  in  the 
affair,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  respectfully  responded  Anderson,  his 
chin  whisker  wobbling  pathetically. 

"Then  we're  ready  to  proceed.  It  takes  a  little 
nerve,  that's  all,  but  we'll  soon  have  those  robbers 
just  where  we  want  them,"  said  Andrew  Gregory. 

The  second  act  of  the  play  was  fairly  well  under  way 
when  Orlando,  in  the  "green  room,"  remarked  to  the 
stage  director: 

"What's  that  old  rube  doing  back  here,  Ramsay? 
Why,  hang  it,  man,  he's  carrying  a  couple  of  guns. 


296        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Is  this  a  hold-up  ?"  At  the  same  instant  Rosalind  and 
two  of  the  women  came  rushing  from  their  dressing 
tent,  alarmed  and  indignant.  Miss  Marmaduke,  her 
eyes  blazing,  confronted  the  stage  director. 

"What  does  this  mean,  Mr.  Ramsay?"  she  cried. 
"That  old  man  ordered  us  out  of  our  dressing-room 
at  the  point  of  a  revolver,  and — see !  There  he  is 
now  doing  the  same  to  the  men." 

It  was  true.  Anderson  Crow,  with  a  brace  of  horse 
pistols,  was  driving  the  players  toward  the  centre  of 
the  stage.  In  a  tremulous  voice  he  commanded  them 
to  remain  there  and  take  the  consequences.  A  mo 
ment  later  the  marshal  of  Tinkletown  strode  into  the 
limelight  with  his  arsenal,  facing  an  astonished  and 
temporarily  amused  audience.  His  voice,  pitched 
high  with  excitement,  reached  to  the  remotest  corners 
of  the  inclosure.  Behind  him  the  players  were  look 
ing  on,  open-mouthed  and  bewildered.  To  them  he 
loomed  up  as  the  long-dreaded  constable  detailed  to 
attach  their  personal  effects.  The  audience,  if  at  first 
it  laughed  at  him  as  a  joke,  soon  changed  its  view. 
Commotion  followed  his  opening  speech. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

The  Luck  of  Anderson  Crow 

"DON'T  anybody  attempt  to  leave  this  tent!"  com 
manded  Mr.  Crow,  standing  bravely  forth  with  his 
levelled  revolvers.  The  orchestra  made  itself  as 
small  as  possible,  for  one  of  the  guns  wavered  dan 
gerously.  "Don't  be  alarmed,  ladies  and  gentlemen. 
The  train  robbers  are  among  you." 

There  were  a  few  feminine  shrieks,  a  volume  of  mas 
culine  "Whats  !"  a  half-hearted  and  uncertain  snigger, 
and  a  general  turning  of  heads. 

"Keep  your  seats !"  commanded  Anderson.  "They 
can't  escape.  I  have  them  surrounded.  I  now  call 
upon  all  robbers  present  to  surrender  in  the  name  of 
the  law.  Surrender  peaceful  and  you  will  not  be  dam 
aged;  resist  and  we'll  blow  you  to  hell  an'  gone,  even 
at  the  risk  of  injurin'  the  women  and  childern.  The 
law  is  no  respecter  of  persons.  Throw  up  your 
hands !" 

He  waited  impressively,  but  either  through  stupe 
faction  or  obstinacy  the  robbers  failed  to  lift  their 
hands. 

"You're  cornered,  you  golderned  scamps !"  shouted 
Anderson  Crow,  "an'  you  might  jest  as  well  give  up  I 
Twenty  Pinkerton  men  are  here  from  New  York 
City,  an'  you  can't  escape!  Throw  up  your 
hands!" 


298        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"The  damned  old  fool  is  in  earnest,"  gasped  Judge 
Brewster,  from  across  the  river. 
"He's  crazy!"  cried  Congressman  Bonner. 
"Let  everybody  in  this  crowd  throw  up  their  hands !" 
called  a  firm,  clear  voice  from  the  entrance.     At  the 
same  instant  five  bewhiskered  individuals  appeared 
as  if  by  magic  with  drawn  revolvers,  dominating  the 
situation    completely.      The    speaker    was    Andrew 
Gregory,  the  insurance  agent. 
"Now,  what  have  you  got  to  say?"  cried  Anderson 

gaily.  "I  guess 
me  an'  the  de 
tectives  have 
you  cornered 
all  right,  ain't 
we?" 

The  audi 
ence  sat  stupe 
fied,  paral 
ysed.  While 
all  this  was 
going  on  upon 
the  inside,  a 
single  detec 
tive  on  the  out- 
s  i  d  e  was 
stealthily 
pu  ncturing 
the  tires  of 
every  auto 
mobile  in  the 


299 

collection,  Mr.  Bracken's  huge  touring  car  being  ex- 
cepted  for  reasons  to  be  seen  later  on. 

"Good  heavens!"  groaned  old  Judge  Brewster.  A 
half  dozen  women  fainted  and  a  hundred  men  broke 
into  a  cold  perspiration. 

"Hands  up,  everybody!"  commanded  Andrew  Greg 
ory.  "We  can  take  no  chances.  The  train  robbers 
are  in  this  audience.  They  came  to  hold  up  the  entire 
crowd,  but  we  are  too  quick  for  you,  my  fine  birds. 
The  place  is  surrounded!" 

"Mr.  Gregory,  the  insurance — "  began  Anderson 
Crow,  but  he  was  cut  short. 

"Mr.  Crow  deserves  great  credit  for  this  piece  of 
detective  work.  His  mere  presence  is  a  guaranty  of 
safety  to  those  of  you  who  are  not  thieves.  You  all 
have  your  hands  up?  Thanks.  Mr.  Crow,  please 
keep  those  actors  quiet.  Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
it  is  not  always  an  easy  matter  to  distinguish  thieves 
from  honest  men.  I  will  first  give  the  desperadoes  a 
chance  to  surrender  peaceably.  No  one  steps  for 
ward?  Very  well.  Keep  your  hands  up,  all  of  you. 
The  man  who  lowers  his  hands  will  be  instantly  re 
garded  as  a  desperado  and  may  get  a  bullet  in  his 
body  for  his  folly.  The  innocent  must  suffer  with  the 
guilty.  Mr.  Crow,  shall  we  proceed  with  the  search  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  go  right  ahead,  and  be  quick,"  replied 
Anderson  Crow. 

"Very  well,  then,  in  the  name  of  the  law,  my  men 
will  begin  the  search.  They  will  pass  among  you, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  any  effort  to  retard  their 
progress  will  be  met  with  instant — well,  you  know." 


joo        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Before  the  petrified  audience  could  fully  realise  what 
was  taking  place,  three  of  the  detectives  were  swiftly 
passing  from  person  to  person,  stripping  the  women 
of  their  jewels,  the  men  of  their  money  and  their 
watches.  A  half-hearted  protest  went  up  to  Ander 
son  Crow,  but  it  was  checked  summarily  by  the 
"searching  party."  It  was  well  for  the  poor  marshal 
that  he  never  knew  what  the  audience  thought  of  him 
at  that  ghastly  moment. 

It  was  all  over  in  five  minutes.  The  detectives  had 
searched  every  prosperous-looking  person  in  the  audi 
ence,  under  the  very  nose  and  guns  of  Marshal  Crow, 
and  they  were  sardonically  bidding  the  assemblage  a 
fond  good-bye  from  the  flapping  doorway  in  the 
side  wall.  Andrew  Gregory  addressed  the  crowd, 
smiling  broadly. 

"We  found  a  good  many  more  robbers  in  the  crowd 
than  we  could  conveniently  handle,  ladies  and  gentle 
men.  In  fact,  I  never  came  across  such  a  rare  col 
lection  of  hold-up  men  outside  of  Wall  Street.  The 
only  perfectly  honest  man  in  Tinkletown  to-night  is 
Anderson  Crow,  your  esteemed  marshal.  Believe  me, 
he  is  ridiculously  honest.  He  may  be  a  damn  fool, 
but  he  is  honest.  Don't  blame  him.  Thanking  you, 
one  and  all,  for  your  generous  help  in  our  search  for 
the  train  robbers,  we  bid  you  an  affectionate  farewell. 
We  may  meet  again  if  you  travel  extensively  on  ex 
press  trains.  Good-night!" 

With  a  taunting  laugh,  Andrew  Gregory  dropped 
the  flap  and  leaped  after  his  companions.  Bracken's 
chauffeur  lay  senseless  by  the  roadside,  and  one  of  the 


The  Luck  of  Anderson  Cro<w  301 

"detectives"  sat  in  his  seat.  Even  as  the  audience 
opened  its  collective  mouth  to  shout  its  wrath  and 
surprise,  the  big  touring  car,  with  six  armed  men 
aboard,  leaped  away  with  a  rush.  Down  the  dark 
road  it  flew  like  an  express  train,  its  own  noise  drown 
ing  the  shouts  of  the  multitude,  far  behind. 

Bonner,  recovering  from  his  stupefaction  and  rage, 
led  the  pursuit,  first  commanding  Rosalie  to  hurry 
home  with  the  women  and  lock  herself  safely 
indoors. 

Anderson  Crow,  realising  what  a  dupe  he  had  been 
in  the  hands  of  the  clever  scoundrels,  was  covered 
with  fear  and  shame.  The  outraged  crowd  might 
have  killed  him  had  not  his  escape  been  made  under 
cover  of  darkness.  Shivering  and  moaning  in  abject 
misery,  the  pride  of  Tinkletown  fled  unseeing,  un 
thinking  into  the  forest  along  the  river.  He  was  not 
to  know  until  afterward  that  his  "detectives"  had 
stripped  the  rich  sojourners  of  at  least  ten  thousand 
dollars  in  money  and  jewels.  It  is  not  necessary  to 
say  that  the  performance  of  "As  You  Like  It"  came 
to  an  abrupt  end,  because  it  was  not  as  they  liked  it. 
Everybody  knew  by  this  time  that  they  had  seen 
the  celebrated  "train  robbers." 

Jackie  Blake  was  half  dressed  when  he  leaped  to 
his  feet  with  an  exclamation  so  loud  that  those  pre 
ceding  it  were  whispers. 

"Holy  smoke!"  fell  from  his  lips;  and  then  he 
dashed  across  the  green  to  the  women's  dressing  tent. 
"Cora!  Cora!  Come  out!" 

"I  can't,"  came  back  in  muffled  tones. 


302        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Then  good-bye;  I'm  off!"  he  shouted.  That 
brought  her,  partially  dressed,  from  the  tent.  "Say, 
do  you  remember  the  river  road  we  walked  over  to- 
day?  Well,  those  fellows  went  in  that  direction, 
didn't  they?  Don't  you  see?  Aren't  you  on?  The 
washout!  If  they  don't  know  about  it  the  whole 
bunch  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  ravine  or  in  the  river 
by  this  time  !  Mum's  the  word !  There's  a  chance, 
darling ;  the  reward  said  'dead  or  alive !'  I'm  off  !" 

She  tried  to  call  him  back,  but  it  was  too  late.  With 
his  own  revolver  in  his  hand,  the  half  Orlando,  half 
Blake,  tore  down  the  rarely  travelled  river  road  south. 
Behind  him  Tinkletown  raved  and  wailed  over  the 
great  calamity,  but  generally  stood  impotent  in  the 
face  of  it  all.  But  few  felt  inclined  to  pursue  the 
robbers.  Blake  soon  had  the  race  to  himself.  It 
was  a  mile  or  more  to  the  washout  in  the  road,  but 
the  excitement  made  him  keen  for  the  test.  The  road 
ran  through  the  woods  and  along  the  high  bluff  that 
overlooked  the  river.  He  did  not  know  it,  but  this 
same  road  was  a  "short  cut"  to  the  macadam  pike 
farther  south.  By  taking  this  route  the  robbers  gave 
Boggs  City  a  wide  berth. 

Blake's  mind  was  full  of  the  possibilities  of  disaster 
to  the  over-confident  fugitives.  The  washout  was 
fresh,  and  he  was  counting  on  the  chance  that  they 
were  not  aware  of  its  existence.  If  they  struck  it 
even  at  half  speed  the  whole  party  would  be  hurled 
a  hundred  feet  down  to  the  edge  of  the  river  or 
into  the  current  itself.  In  that  event,  some,  if  not 
all,  would  be  seriously  injured. 


The  Luck  of  Anderson  Crow  303 

As  he  neared  the  turn  in  the  road,  his  course  pointed 
out  to  him  by  the  stars  above,  he  was  startled  half  out 
of  his  boots  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  man,  who 
staggered  from  the  roadside  and  wobbled  painfully 
away,  pleading  for  mercy. 

"Halt,  or  I'll  shoot!"  called  Jackie  Blake,  and  the 
pathetic  figure  not  only  halted,  but  sat  down  in  the 
middle  of  the  road. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,  don't  shoot !"  groaned  a  hoarse 
voice.  "I  wasn't  in  cahoots  with  them.  They  fooled 
me — they  fooled  me."  It  was  Anderson  Crow,  and 
he  would  have  gone  on  interminably  had  not  Jackie 
Blake  stopped  him  short. 

"You're  the  marshal,  eh?     The  darned  rube " 

"Yes,  I'm  him.  Call  me  anything,  only  don't  shoot. 
Who  are  you?"  groaned  Anderson,  rising  to  his 
knees.  He  was  holding  his  revolvers  by  the  muzzles. 

"Never  mind  who  I  am.  I  haven't  time.  Say, 
you'd  better  come  with  me.  Maybe  we  can  head  off 
those  villains.  They  came  this  way  and " 

"Show  'em  to  me,"  roared  Anderson,  recognising  a 
friend.  Rage  surged  up  and  drove  out  the  shame 
in  his  soul.  "I'll  tackle  the  hull  caboodle,  dang  'em  !" 
And  he  meant  it,  too. 

Blake  did  not  stop  to  explain,  but  started  on,  com 
manding  Mr.  Crow  to  follow.  With  rare  fore 
thought  the  marshal  donned  his  yellow  beard  as  he 
panted  in  the  trail  of  the  lithe  young  actor.  The 
latter  remembered  that  the  odds  were  heavily  against 
him.  The  marshal  might  prove  a  valuable  aid  in  case 
of  resistance,  provided,  of  course,  that  they  came 


304        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

upon    the    robbers    in    the    plight    he    was    hoping 
for. 

"Where  the  dickens  are  you  a-goin' ?"  wheezed  the 
marshal,  kicking  up  a  great  dust  in  the  rear.  The 
other  did  not  answer.  His  whole  soul  was  enveloped 
in  the  hope  that  the  washout  had  trapped  the  robbers. 
He  was  almost  praying  that  it  might  be  so.  The 
reward  could  be  divided  with  the  poor  old  marshal 

if 

He  gave  a  yell  of  delight,  an  instant  later,  and  then 
began  jumping  straight  up  and  down  like  one  de 
mented.  Anderson  Crow  stopped  so  abruptly  that 
his  knees  were  stiff  for  weeks.  Jackie  Blake's  wild 
dream  had  come  true.  The  huge  automobile  had 
struck  the  washout,  and  it  was  now  lying  at  the  base 
of  the  bluff,  smashed  to  pieces  on  the  rocks !  By  the 

dim  light  from 
the  heavens, 
Blake  could  see 
the  black  hulk 
down  there,  but  it 
was  too  dark  to 
distinguish  other 
objects.  He  was 
about  to  descend 
to  the  river  bank 
when  Anderson 
Crow  came  up. 

"What's  the 
matter,  man?" 
panted  he. 


"THE     HUGE     AUTOMOBILE     HAD     STRUCK     THE     WASHOUT*' 


The  Luck  of  Anderson  Crow  305 

"They're  down  there,  don't  you  see  it?  They  went 
over  the  bluff  right  here — come  on.  We've  got  'em!" 

"Hold  on!"  exclaimed  Anderson,  grasping  his  arm. 
"Don't  rush  down  there  like  a  danged  fool.  If  they're 
alive  they  can  plug  you  full  of  bullets  in  no  time.  Let's, 
be  careful." 

"By  thunder,  you're  right.  You're  a  wise  old  owl, 
after  all.  I  never  thought  of  that.  Let's  recon 
noitre." 

Tingling  with  excitement,  the  two  oddly  mated  pur 
suers  descended  stealthily  by  a  roundabout  way.  They 
climbed  over  rocks  and  crept  through  underbrush  until 
finally  they  came  to  a  clear  spot  not  twenty  feet  from 
where  the  great  ma 
chine  was  lying,  at 
the  very  edge  of  the 
swift,  deep  current. 
They  heard  groans 
and  faint  cries,  with 
now  and  then  a  pite 
ous  oath.  From  their 
hiding  place  they 
counted  the  forms  of 
four  men  lying  upon 
the  rocks,  as  if  dead. 
The  two  held  a  whis 
pered  consultation 
of  war,  a  plan  of 
action  resulting. 

"Surrender!" 
shouted     Jackie 


306        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Blake,  standing  forth.  He  and  Anderson  had  their 
pistols  levelled  upon  the  prostrate  robbers.  For 
answer  there  were  louder  groans,  a  fiercer  oath  or  two 
and  then  a  weak,  pain-struck  voice  came  out  to  them : 

"For  God's  sake,  get  this  machine  off  my  legs.  I'm 
dying.  Help!  Help!  We  surrender!" 

Ten  minutes  later,  the  jubilant  captors  had  released 
the  miserable  Andrew  Gregory  from  his  position  be 
neath  the  machine,  and  had  successfully  bound  the 
hands  and  feet  of  five  half-unconscious  men.  Greg 
ory's  legs  were  crushed  and  one  other's  skull  was 
cracked.  The  sixth  man  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 
The  disaster  had  been  complete,  the  downfall  of  the 
great  train  robbers  inglorious.  Looking  up  into  the 
face  of  Anderson  Crow,  Gregory  smiled  through  his 
pain  and  said  hoarsely: 

"Damned  rotten  luck;  but  if  we  had  to  be  taken,  I'm 
glad  you  did  it,  Crow.  You're  a  good  fool,  anyway. 
But  for  God's  sake,  get  me  to  a  doctor." 

"Dang  it!  I'm  sorry  fer  you,  Mr.  Gregory " 

began  Anderson,  ready  to  cry. 

"Don't  waste  your  time,  old  man.  I  need  the  doctor. 
Are  the  others  dead?"  he  groaned. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Jackie  Blake.  "Some  of 
them  look  like  it.  We  can't  carry  you  up  that  hill,  but 
we'll  do  the  next  best  thing.  Marshal,  I'll  stay  here 
and  guard  the  prisoners  while  you  run  to  the  village 
for  help — and  doctors." 

"And  run  fast,  Anderson,"  added  Gregory.  "You 
always  were  so  devilish  slow.  Don't  walk — trot." 

Soon  afterward,  when  Anderson,  fagged  but  over- 


The  Luck  of  Anderson  Crow  307 

joyed,  hobbled  into  the  village,  the  excited  crowd  was 
ready  to  lynch  him,  but  with  his  first  words  the  atmos 
phere  changed. 

"Where  is  Jackie  Blake?"  sobbed  a  pretty  young 
woman,  grasping  the  proud  marshal's  arm  and  shak 
ing  him  violently. 

"Derned  if  I  know,  ma'am.     Was  he  stole?" 

She  made  him  understand,  and  together,  followed 
by  the  actors,  the  audience  and  the  whole  town,  they 
led  the  way  to  the  washout,  the  fair  Rosalind  drag 
ging  the  overworked  hero  of  the  hour  along  at  a  gait 
which  threatened  to  be  his  undoing. 

Later  on,  after  the  five  bandits  had  been  carried  to 
the  village,  Jackie  Blake  gladly  informed  his  sweet 
heart  that  they  could  have  easy  sailing  with  the  seven 
thousand  dollars  he  expected.  Anderson  Crow  had 
agreed  to  take  but  three  thousand  dollars  for  his  share 
in  the  capture.  One  of  the  robbers  was  dead.  The 
body  of  the  sixth  was  found  in  the  river  weeks  after 
ward. 

"I'm  glad  I  was  the  first  on  the  ground,"  said  Blake, 
in  anticipation  of  the  reward  which  was  eventually  to 
be  handed  over  to  him.  "But  Anderson  Crow  turned 
out  to  be  a  regular  trump,  after  all.  He's  a  corker!" 
He  was  speaking  to  Wicker  Bonner  and  a  crowd  of 
New  Yorkers. 

Tinkletown  began  to  talk  of  a  monument  to  Anderson 
Crow,  even  while  he  lived.  The  general  opinion  was 
that  it  should  be  erected  while  he  was  still  able  to  en 
joy  it  and  not  after  his  death,  when  he  would  not 
know  anything  about  its  size  and  cost. 


308        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"By  gosh!  'Twas  a  great  capture!"  swelling  per 
ceptibly.  "I  knowed  they  couldn't  escape  me.  Dang 
'em !  they  didn't  figger  on  me,  did  they  ?  Pshaw !  it 
was  reediculus  of  'em  to  think  they  c'd  fool  me  en 
tirely,  although  I'll  have  to  confess  they  did  fool  me 
at  first.  It  was  a  desprit  gang  an'  mighty  slick." 

"You  worked  it  great,  Anderson,"  said  George  Ray. 
"Did  you  know  about  the  washout?" 

"Did  I  know  about  it?"  snorted  Anderson  wither- 
ingly.  "Why,  good  Gosh  a'mighty,  didn't  I  purty 
near  run  my  legs  off  to  git  there  in  time  to  throw  down 
the  barricade  before  they  could  get  there  with  Mr. 
Bracken's  automobile  ?  Thunderation !  What  a  fool 
question!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
Bill  Briggs  Tells  a  Tale 

TINKLETOWN  fairly  bubbled  with  excitement.  At 
last  the  eyes  of  the  world  were  upon  it.  News  of  the 
great  sensation  was  flashed  to  the  end  of  the  earth; 
every  detail  was  gone  into  with  harrowing  minuteness. 
The  Hemisphere  Company  announced  by  telegraph 
that  it  stood  ready  to  hand  over  the  ten  thousand  dol 
lars;  and  the  sheriff  of  Bramble  County  with  all  the 
United  States  deputy  marshals  within  reach  raced  at 
once  to  Tinkletown  to  stick  a  finger  in  the  pie. 

The  morning  after  the  "great  pavilion  robbery,"  as 
it  was  called  in  the  Banner,  Anderson  Crow  and  Bon- 
ner  fared  forth  early  to  have  a  look  at  the  injured  des 
peradoes,  all  of  whom  were  safely  under  guard  at  the 
reincarnated  calaboose.  Fifty  armed  men  had  stood 
guard  all  night  long,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that 
one  robber  was  dead  and  the  others  so  badly  injured 
that  they  were  not  expected  to  survive  the  day. 

A  horseman  passed  the  marshal  and  his  friend  near 
the  post-office,  riding  rapidly  to  the  north.  He  waved 
his  crop  pleasantly  to  them  and  Bonner  responded. 
Anderson  stopped  stock  still  and  tried  to  speak,  but 
did  not  succeed  for  a  full  minute;  he  was  dumb  with 
excitement. 

"That's  him!"  he  managed  to  gasp.  "The  feller  I 
saw  the  other  day — the  man  on  horseback !" 


3 1  o        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"That?"  cried  Bonner,  laughing  heartily.  "Why, 
that  is  John  E.  Barnes,  the  lawyer  and  probably  a 
United  States  Senator  some  day.  Good  heavens,  Mr. 
Crow,  you've  made  a  bad  guess  of  it  this  time !  He 
is  staying  with  Judge  Brewster,  his  father-in-law." 

"What!  Well,  by  Geminy!  I  thought  I  knowed 
him,"  cried  Anderson.  "They  cain't  fool  me  long, 
Wick — none  of  'em.  He's  the  same  feller  'at  run 
away  with  Judge  Brewster's  daughter  more'n  twenty 
year  ago.  'y  Gosh,  I  was  standin'  right  on  this  very 
spot  the  first  time  I  ever  see  him.  He  sold  me  a  hoss 
and  buggy — but  I  got  the  money  back.  I  arrested 
him  the  same  day." 

"Arrested  John  Barnes?"  in  amazement. 

"Yep — fer  murder — only  he  wasn't  the  murderer. 
We  follered  him  down  the  river — him  an'  the  girl — 
to  Bracken's  place,  but  they  were  married  afore  we  got 
there.  Doggone,  that  was  a  busy  day !  Some  blamed 
good  detective  work  was  did,  too.  I 

"And  Mr.  Barnes  was  interested  in  Rosalie?"  asked 
Bonner  suddenly.  "How  could  he  have  known  any 
thing  about  her?" 

"That's  what  puzzles  me.  She  came  here  about  two 
years  after  the  elopement  more  er  less,  but  I  don't 
remember  ever  seem'  him  after  that  time." 

"It's  very  strange,  Mr.  Crow,"  reflected  Bonner 
soberly.  "He  has  a  son,  I  know.  His  wife  died  a 
year  or  so  after  the  boy's  birth.  Young  Barnes  is 
about  twenty-one,  I  think  at  this  time.  By  George ! 
I've  heard  it  said  that  Barnes  and  his  wife  were  not 
hitting  it  off  very  well.  They  say  she  died  of  a  broken 


Bill  Briggs  Tells  a  Tale  3  1 1 

heart.  I've  heard  mother  speak  of  it  often.  I  won 
der — great  heavens,  it  isn't  possible  that  Rosalie  can 
be  connected  in  any  way  with  John  Barnes?  Anderson 
Crow,  I — I  wonder  if  there  is  a  possibility?"  Bonner 
was  quivering  with  excitement,  wonder — and — un 
belief. 

"I'm  workin'  on  that  clew,"  said  Anderson  as  calmly 
as  his  tremors  would  permit.  He  was  thrilled  by  the 
mere  suggestion,  but  it  was  second  nature  for  him  to 
act  as  if  every  discovery  were  his  own.  "Ever  sence 
I  saw  him  on  the  road  up  there,  I've  been  trackin'  him. 
I  tell  you,  Wick,  he's  my  man.  I've  got  it  almost 
worked  out.  Just  as  soon  as  these  blamed  robbers  are 
moved  to  Boggs  City,  er  buried,  I'm  goin'  over  an' 
git  the  truth  out  of  Mr.  Barnes.  I've  been  huntin'  him 
fer  twenty-one  years."  Anderson,  of  course,  was  for 
getting  that  Barnes  had  slipped  from  his  mind  com 
pletely  until  Bonner  nudged  his  memory  into  life. 

"It's  a  delicate  matter,  Mr.  Crow.  We  must  go 
about  it  carefully,"  said  Bonner  severely.  "If  Mr. 
Barnes  is  really  interested  in  her,  we  can't  find 
it  out  by  blundering;  if  he  is  not  interested,  we 
can't  afford  to  drag  him  into  it.  It  will  require 
tact " 

"Thunderation,  don't  you  suppose  I  know  that?" 
exploded  Anderson.  "Detectives  are  allers  tackin'. 
They  got  to,  y'  see,  ef  they're  goin'  to  foller  half  a 
dozen  clews  at  oncet.  Gee  whiz,  Wick,  leave  this 
thing  to  me !  I'll  git  at  the  bottom  of  it  inside  o' 
no  time." 

"Wait  a  few  days,  Mr.  Crow,"  argued  Bonner,  play- 


3  i  2        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

ing  for  time.  "Don't  hurry.  We've  got  all  we  can 
do  now  to  take  care  of  the  fellows  you  and  that  young 
actor  captured  last  night."  The  young  man's  plan  was 
to  keep  Anderson  off  the  trail  entirely  and  give  the 
seemingly  impossible  clew  into  the  possession  of  the 
New  York  bureau. 

"I  don't  know  what  I'd  'a'  done  ef  it  hadn't  been 
fer  that  young  feller,"  said  the  marshal.  "He  was 
right  smart  help  to  me  last  night."  Bonner,  who 
knew  the  true  story,  suppressed  a  smile  and  loved  the 
old  man  none  the  less  for  his  mild  deception. 

They  entered  the  "calaboose,"  which  now  had  all  the 
looks  and  odours  of  a  hospital.  A  half-dozen  doctors 
had  made  the  four  injured  men  as  comfortable  as  pos 
sible.  They  were  stretched  on  mattresses  in  the  jail 
dining-room,  guarded  by  a  curious  horde  of  citizens. 

"That's  Gregory !"  whispered  Anderson,  as  they 
neared  the  suffering  group.  He  pointed  to  the  most 
distant  cot.  "That's  jest  the  way  he  swore  last  night. 
He  must  'a'  shaved  in  the  automobile  last  night," 
though  Gregory  had  merely  discarded  the  false  whis 
kers  he  had  worn  for  days. 

"Wait!"  exclaimed  Bonner,  stopping  short  beside 
the  first  cot.  He  stooped  and  peered  intently  into  the 
face  of  the  wounded  bandit.  "By  George !" 

"What's  up?" 

"As  I  live,  Mr.  Crow,  this  fellow  was  one  of  the 
gang  that  abducted  Rosalie  Gray  last  winter.  I  can 
swear  to  it.  Don't  you  remember  the  one  she  tried 
to  intercede  for?  Briggs!  That's  it!  Briggs!" 

The  injured  man  slowly  opened  his  eyes  as  the  name 


Bill  Briggs  Tells  a  Tale  3  i  3 

was  half  shouted.     A  sickly  grin  spread  slowly  over 
his  pain-racked  face. 

"She  tried  to  intercede  fer  me,  did  she?"  he  mur 
mured  weakly.  "She  said  she  would.  She  was 
square." 

"You  were  half  decent  to  her,"  said  Bonner.  "How 
do  you  happen  to  be  with  this  gang?  Another  kid 
naping  scheme  afloat?" 

"No — not  that  I  know  of.  Ain't  you  the  guy  that 
fixed  us?  Say,  on  the  dead,  I  was  goin'  to  do  the 
right  thing  by  her  that  night.  I  was  duckin'  the  gang 
when  you  slugged  me.  Honest,  mister,  I  was  goin'  to 
put  her  friends  next.  Say,  I  don't  know  how  bad  I'm 
hurt,  but  if  I  ever  git  to  trial,  do  what  you  can  fer  me, 
boss.  On  the  dead,  I  was  her  friend." 

Bonner  saw  pity  in  Anderson's  face  and  rudely 
dragged  him  away,  although  Bill's  plea  was  not  ad 
dressed  to  the  old  marshal. 

"Wait  for  me  out  here,  Mr.  Crow,"  said  he  when 
they  reached  the  office.  "You  are  overcome.  I'll 
talk  to  him."  He  returned  at  once  to  the  injured 
man's  cot. 

"Look  here,  Briggs,  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  you,  but 
I'm  afraid  it  won't  help  much.  What  do  the  doc 
tors  say?" 

"If  they  ain't  lyin',  I'll  be  up  an'  about  in  a  few 
weeks.  Shoulder  and  some  ribs  cracked  and  my  legs 
stove  up.  I  can't  move.  God,  that  was  an  awful 
tumble!"  He  shuddered  in  memory  of  the  auto's 
leap. 
"Is  Sam  or  Davy  in  this  gang?" 


314        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"No;  Davy's  at  Blackwell's  Island,  an'  Sam  told  me 
he  was  goin'  to  Canada  fer  his  health.  Jim  Courtney 
is  the  leader  of  this  gang.  He  sailed  under  the  name 
of  Gregory.  That's  him  swearin'  at  the  rubes." 

"The  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  make  a  clean  breast 
of  it,  Briggs.  It  will  go  easier  with  you." 

"Turn  State's  evidence?  What  good  will  that  do 
when  we  was  all  caught  with  the  goods?" 

"If  you  will  tell  us  all  of  the  inside  facts  concerning 
the  abduction  I'll  guarantee  that  something  can  be 
done  to  lighten  your  sentence.  I  am  Congressman 
Bonner's  nephew." 

"So?  I  thought  you  was  the  swellest  hold-up  man  I 
ever  met,  that  night  out  in  the  woods.  You'd  do 
credit  to  Sam  Welch  himself.  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know, 
pardner,  but  it  ain't  a  great  deal.  It  won't  do  me  any 
good  to  keep  my  mouth  shut  now,  an',  if  you  say  so, 
it  may  help  me  to  squeal.  But,  fer  the  Lord's  sake, 
have  one  of  these  rotten  doctors  give  me  something 
to  make  me  sleep.  Don't  they  know  what  morphine  is 
for?" 

Growling  and  cursing  at  the  doctors,  Bill  was  moved 
into  the  office.  Anderson  came  in  from  the  dining- 
room  at  that  juncture,  visibly  excited. 

"I've  got  a  confession  from  Gregory,"  he  said.  "He 
confesses  that  he  oughter  be  hung." 

"What!" 

"That's  what  he  said — 'y  ginger.  Here's  his  very 
words,  plain  as  day:  'I  oughter  be  hung  half  a  dozen 
times.'  'What  fer?'  says  I.  'Fer  bein'  sech  a  damned 
ass,'  said  he.  'But  that  ain't  a  hangable  offence,'  said 


Bill  Briggs  Tells  a  Tale  315 

I.  You  know,  I  kinder  like  Gregory,  spite  of  all.  'It's 
the  worst  crime  in  the  world,'  said  he.  'Then  you  con 
fess  you've  committed  it?'  said  I,  anxious  to  pin  him 
right  down  to  it,  y'  see.'  'You  bet  I  do.  Ef  they  hang 
me  it'll  be  because  I'm  a  drivelling  idiot,  an'  not  be 
cause  I've  shot  one  er  two  in  my  time.  Nobody  but 
an  ass  could  be  caught  at  it,  an'  that's  why  I  feel  so  in 
fernal  guilty.  Look  here,  Mr.  Crow,  ever'  time  you 
see  a  feller  that's  proved  himself  a  downright  ass,  jest 
take  him  out  an'  lynch  him.  He  deserves  it,  that's 
all  I've  got  to  say.  The  greatest  crime  in  the  world  is 
criminal  neglect.'  Don't  bother  me  now,  Wick;  I'm 
going  to  write  that  down  an'  have  him  sign  it." 

"Look  here,  pard,"  said  Bill  Briggs,  laboriously 
breaking  in  upon  their  conversation;  "I  want  to  do  the 
right  thing  by  you  an'  her  as  fer  as  Itcan.  You've 
been  good  to  me,  an'  I  won't  fergit  it.  Besides,  you 
said  you'd  make  things  easy  fer  me  if  I  told  you  what 
I  knowed  about  that  job  last  winter.  Well,  I'd  better 
tell  it  now,  'cause  I'm  liable  to  pass  in  my  checks  be 
fore  these  doctors  git  through  with  me.  An'  besides, 
they'll  be  haulin'  me  off  to  the  county  seat  in  a  day  or 
two.  Now,  this  is  dead  straight,  I'm  gain'  to  give  you. 
Maybe  it  won't  help  you  none,  but  '11  give  you  a  lead." 

"Go  on,"  cried  Bonner  breathlessly. 

"Well,  Sam  Welch  come  to  me  in  Branigan's  place 
one  night — that's  in  Fourt'  Avenue — an'  says  he's  got 
a  big  job  on.  We  went  over  to  Davy  Wolfe's  house 
an'  found  him  an'  his  mother — the  old  fairy,  you 
remember.  Well,  to  make  it  short,  Sam  said  it  was 
a  kidnaping  job  an'  the  Wolfes  was  to  be  in  on  it 


316        The  "Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

because  they  used  to  live  in  this  neighbourhood  an* 
done  a  lot  of  work  here  way  back  in  the  seventies. 
There  was  to  be  five  thousand  dollars  in  the  job  if  we 
got  that  girl  safe  on  board  a  ship  bound  fer  Europe. 
Sam  told  us  that  the  guy  what  engineered  the  game  was 
a  swell  party  an'  a  big  boy  in  politics,  finance,  society 
an'  ever'thin'  else.  He  could  afford  to  pay,  but  he 
didn't  want  to  be  seen  in  the  job.  Nobody  but  Sam 
ever  seen  his  face.  Sam  used  to  be  in  politics  some. 
Jest  before  we  left  New  York  to  come  up  here,  the 
swell  guy  comes  around  to  Davy's  with  another  guy 

fer  final  orders.  See?  It  was  as  cold  as  h as  the 

dickens — an'  the  two  of  'em  was  all  muffled  up  so's 
we  couldn't  get  a  pipe  at  their  mugs.  One  of  'em  was 
old — over  fifty,  I  guess — an'  the  other  was  a  young 
chap.  I'm  sure  of  that. 

"They  said  that  one  or  the  other  of  'em  would  be 
in  this  neighbourhood  when  the  job  was  pulled  off; 
that  one  thousand  dollars  would  be  paid  down  when 
we  started;  another  thousand  when  we  got  'er  into  the 
cave ;  and  the  rest  when  we  had  'er  at  the  dock  in  New 
York — alive  an'  unhurt.  See?  We  was  given  to 
understand  that  she  was  to  travel  all  the  rest  of  'er 
life  fer  'er  health.  I  remember  one  thing  plain: 
The  old  man  said  to  the  young  'un:  'She  must  not 
know  a  thing  of  this,  or  it  will  ruin  everything.'  He 
wasn't  referrin'to  the  girl  either.  There  was  another 
woman  in  the  case.  They  seemed  mighty  anxious  to 
pull  the  job  off  without  this  woman  gettin'  next. 

"Well,  we  got  ready  to  start,  and  the  two  parties 
coughed  up  the  thousand  plunks — that  is,  the  young 


Bill  Briggs  Tells  a  Tale  317 

'un  handed  it  over  to  Sam  when  the  old  'un  told  him 
to.  Sam  took  three  hundred  and  the  rest  of  us  two 
hundred  a  piece.  When  they  were  lookin'  from  the 
winder  to  see  that  nobody  on  the  streets  was  watchin' 
the  house,  I  asked  Sam  if  he  knowed  either  of  them 
by  name.  He  swore  he  didn't,  but  I  think  he  lied. 
But  jest  before  they  left  the  house,  I  happened  to  look 
inside  of  the  old  boy's  hat — he  had  a  stiff  dicer.  There 
was  a  big  gilt  letter  in  the  top  of  it." 

"What  was  that  letter?"  demanded  Bonner  eagerly. 

"It  was  a  B." 

Bonner  looked  at  Anderson  as  if  the  floor  were  being 
drawn  from  under  his  feet. 

"The  young  chap  said  somethin'  low  to  the  old  'un 
about  takin'  the  night  train  back  to  the  University  an' 
comin'  down  again  Saturday." 

"To  the  University?  Which  one?  Did  he  mention 
the  name?"  cried  Bonner. 

"No.     That's  all  he  said." 

"Good  heavens,  if  it  should  be!"  said  Bonner  as 
if  to  himself. 

"Well,  we  come  up  here  an'  done  the  job.  You 
know  about  that,  I  guess.  Sam  saw  the  young  feller 
one  night  up  at  Boggs  City,  an'  got  instructions  from 
him.  He  was  to  help  us  git  'er  away  from  here  in  an 
automobile,  an'  the  old  man  was  to  go  across  the  ocean 
with  'er.  That's  all  I  know.  It  didn't  turn 
out  their  way  that  time,  but  Sam  says  it's  bound  to 
happen." 

Bonner,  all  eagerness  and  excitement,  quickly  looked 
around  for  Anderson,  but  the  marshal  had  surrepti- 


3 1 8        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

tiously  left  the  room.  Then,  going  over  to  the  door, 
he  called  for  Anderson  Crow.  Bud  Long  was  there. 
"Anderson  left  five  minutes  ago,  Mr.  Bonner,  hurry- 
in'  like  the  dickens,  too,"  he  said.  "He's  gone  to  hunt 
up  a  feller  named  Barnes.  He  told  me  to  tell  you 
when  you  came  out." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

Elsie  Banks  Returns 

BONNER,  considerably  annoyed  and  alarmed  by  the 
marshal's  actions,  made  every  effort  to  turn  him  back 
before  he  could  ruin  everything  by  an  encounter  with 
Mr.  Barnes.  He  sent  men  on  bicycles  and  horseback 
to  overtake  him;  but  the  effort  was  unsuccessful. 
Mr.  Crow  had  secured  a  "ride"  in  an  automobile 
which  had  brought  two  newspaper  correspondents 
over  from  Boggs  City.  They  speeded  furiously  in 
order  to  catch  a  train  for  New  York,  but  agreed  to 
drop  the  marshal  at  the  big  bridge,  not  more  than  a 
mile  from  Judge  Brewster's  place. 

Chagrined  beyond  expression,  he  made  ready  to  fol 
low  Anderson  with  all  haste  in  his  own  machine. 
Rosalie  hurriedly  perfected  preparations  to  accom 
pany  him.  She  was  rejoining  the  house  party  that 
day,  was  consumed  by  excitement  over  the  situation, 
and  just  as  eager  as  Bonner  to  checkmate  the  untimely 
operations  of  poor  old  Anderson  Crow. 

The  marshal  had  more  than  half  an  hour's  start  of 
them.  Bonner  was  his  own  chauffeur  and  he  was  a 
reckless  one  to-day.  Luck  was  against  him  at  the 
outset.  The  vigorous  old  detective  inspired  to  real 
speed,  for  the  first  time  in  his  lackadaisacal  life,  left 
the  newspaper  men  at  the  bridge  nearly  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  before  Bonner  passed  the  same  spot, 


320        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

driving  furiously  up  the  hill  toward  Judge 
Brewster's. 

"If  your  bothersome  old  daddy  gets  his  eyes  on 
Barnes  before  I  can  head  him  off,  dearest,  the  jig  will 
be  up,"  groaned  Bonner,  the  first  words  he  had  spoken 
in  miles.  "Barnes  will  be  on  his  guard  and  ready  for 
anything.  The  old — pardon  me,  for  saying  it — the 
old  jay  ought  to  know  the  value  of  discretion  in  a  case 
like  this." 

"Poor  old  daddy,"  she  sighed,  compassion  in  her 
heart.  "He  thinks  he  is  doing  it  for  the  best.  Wicker, 
I  hope  it  is — it  is  not  Mr.  Barnes,"  she  added,  voicing 
a  thought  which  had  been  struggling  in  her  mind  for 
a  long  time. 

"Why  not,  dearest?" 

"It  would  mean  one  of  two  things.  Either  he  does 
not  want  to  recognise  me  as  his  child — or  cannot, 
which  is  even  worse.  Wicker,  I  don't  want  to  know 
the  truth.  I  am  afraid — I  am  afraid." 

She  was  trembling  like  a  leaf  and  there  was  positive 
distress  in  her  eyes,  eyes  half  covered  by  lids  tense 
with  alarm. 

"Don't  feel  that  way  about  it,  dear,"  cried  he,  re 
covering  from  his  astonishment  and  instantly  grasp 
ing  the  situation  as  it  must  have  appeared  to  her. 
"To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  do  not  believe  that  Mr. 
Barnes  is  related  to  you  in  any  way.  If  he  is  con 
nected  with  the  case  at  all,  it  is  in  the  capacity  of 
attorn'ey." 

"But  he  is  supposed  to  be  an  honourable  man." 

"True,  and  I  still  believe  him  to  be.     It  does  not 


Elsie  Banks  Returns  321 

seem  possible  that  he  can  be  engaged  in  such  work  as 
this.  We  are  going  altogether  on  supposition — put 
ting  two  and  two  together,  don't  you  know,  and  hop 
ing  they  will  stick.  But,  in  any  event,  we  must  not  let 
any  chance  slip  by.  If  he  is  interested,  we  must  bring 
him  to  time.  It  may  mean  the  unravelling  of  the  whole 
skein,  dear.  Don't  look  so  distressed.  Be  brave.  It 
doesn't  matter  what  we  learn  in  the  end,  I  love  you 
just  the  same.  You  shall  be  my  wife." 

"I  do  love  you,  Wicker.    I  will  always  love  you." 

"Dear  little  sweetheart!" 

They  whirled  up  to  the  lodge  gate  at  Judge  Brew- 
ster's  place  at  last,  the  throbbing  machine  coming  to  a 
quick  stop.  Before  he  called  out  to  the  lodge  keeper, 
Bonner  impulsively  drew  her  gloveless  hand  to  his  lips. 

"Nothing  can  make  any  difference  now,"  he  said. 

The  lodge  keeper,  in  reply  to  Bonner's  eager  query, 
informed  them  that  Mr.  Barnes  had  gone  away  ten 
or  fifteen  minutes  before  with  an  old  man  who  claimed 
to  be  a  detective,  and  who  had  placed  the  great  lawyer 
under  arrest. 

"Good  Lord!"  gasped  Bonner  with  a  sinking  heart. 

"It's  an  outrage,  sir!  Mr.  Barnes  is  the  best  man 
in  the  world.  He  never  wronged  no  one,  sir.  There's 
an  'orrible  mistake,  sir,"  groaned  the  lodge  keeper. 
"Judge  Brewster  is  in  Boggs  City,  and  the  man 
wouldn't  wait  for  his  return.  He  didn't  even  want  to 
tell  Mr.  Barnes  what  'e  was  charged  with." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  idiotic?"  roared 
Bonner.  Rosalie  was  white  and  red  by  turn.  "What 
direction  did  they  take?" 


322        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"The  constable  told  Mr.  Barnes  he'd  'aye*  to  go  to 
Tinkletown  with  'im  at  once,  sir,  even  if  he  'ad  to 
walk  all  the  way.  The  old  chap  said  something,  sir, 
about  a  man  being  there  who  could  identify  him  on 
sight.  Mr.  Barnes  'ad  to  laugh,  sir,  and  appeared 
to  take  it  all  in  good  humour.  He  said  he'd  go  along 
of  'im,  but  he  wouldn't  walk.  So  he  got  his  own  auto 
out,  sir,  and  they  went  oft  together.  They  took  the 
short  cut,  sir,  by  the  ferry  road,  'eaded  for  Tinkle- 
town.  Mr.  Barnes  said  he'd  be  back  before  noon, 
sir — if  he  wasn't  lynched." 

"It's  all  over,"  groaned  Bonner  dejectedly.  Some 
thing  had  slipped  from  under  his  feet  and  he  was 
dangling  in  space,  figuratively  speaking.  "There's 
nothing  to  do,  Rosalie,  except  to  chase  them  down. 
Mr.  Crow  has  ruined  everything.  I'll  leave  you  at 
Bonner  Place  with  mother  and  Edith,  and  I'll  hurry 
back  to  Tinkletown." 

The  excitement  was  too  much  for  Rosalie's  nerves. 
She  was  in  a  state  of  physical  collapse  when  he  set  her 
down  at  his  uncle's  summer  home  half  an  hour  later. 
Leaving  her  to  explain  the  situation  to  the  curious 
friends,  he  set  speed  again  for  Tinkletown,  inwardly 
cursing  Anderson  Crow  for  a  meddling  old  fool. 

In  the  meantime  Tinkletown  was  staring  open- 
mouthed  upon  a  new  sensation.  The  race  between 
Anderson  and  Bonner  was  hardly  under  way  when 
down  the  main  street  of  the  town  came  a  jaded  team 
and  surrey.  Behind  the  driver  sat  a  pretty  young 
woman  with  an  eager  expression  on  her  pale  face,  her 
gaze  bent  intently  on  the  turn  in  the  street  which  hid 


Elsie  Banks  Returns  323 

Anderson  Crow's  home  from  view.  Beside  the  young 
woman  lounged  another  of  her  sex,  much  older,  and 
to  all  appearances,  in  a  precarious  state  of  health.  The 
young  men  along  the  street  gasped  in  amazement  and 
then  ventured  to  doff  their  timid  hats  to  the  young 
woman,  very  much  as  if  they  were  saluting  a  ghost. 
Few  of  them  received  a  nod  of  recognition  from  Elsie 
Banks,  one-time  queen  of  all  their  hearts. 

Roscoe  Crow  bounded  out  to  the  gate  when  he  saw 
who  was  in  the  carriage,  first  shouting  to  his  mother 
and  sisters,  who  were  indoors  receiving  congratula 
tions  and  condolences  from  their  neighbours. 

Miss  Banks  immediately  inquired  if  she  could  see 
Rosalie. 

"She  ain't  here,"  said  Roscoe.  "She's  away  fer  a 
month — over  at  the  Bonners'.  He's  her  feller,  you 
know.  Ma!  Here's  Miss  Banks!  Edner!  Sue!" 
Mrs.  Crow  and  the  girls  flew  out  to  the  gate,  babbling 
their  surprise  and  greetings. 

"This  is  my  mother,"  introduced  the  young  lady. 
"We  have  just  come  from  New  York,  Mrs.  Crow. 
We  sail  for  England  this  week,  and  I  must  see 
Rosalie  before  we  go.  How  can  we  get  to  Mr.  Bon- 
ner's  place?" 

"It's  across  the  river,  about  twelve  miles  from  here," 
said  Mrs.  Crow.  "Come  in  and  rest  yourselves.  You 
don't  have  to  go  back  to-day,  do  you?  Ain't  you 
married  yet?" 

"No,  Mrs.  Crow,"  responded  Elsie,  with  a  stiff, 
perfunctory  smile.  "Thank  you,  we  cannot  stop.  It 
is  necessary  that  we  return  to  New  York  to-night,  but 


324        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

I  must  see  Rosalie  before  going.  You  see,  Mrs. 
Crow,  I  do  not  expect  to  return  to  America.  We  are 
to  live  in  London  forever,  I  fear.  It  may  be  the  last 
chance  I'll  have  to  see  Rosalie.  I  must  go  on  to 
Bonner  Place  to-day.  But,  dear  me,  I  am  so  tired 
and  hot,  and  it  is  so  far  to  drive,"  she  cried  ruefully. 
"Do  you  know  the  way,  driver?"  The  driver  gruffly 
admitted  that  he  did  not.  Roscoe  eagerly  bridged 
the  difficulty  by  offering  to  act  as  pathfinder. 

At  first  Mrs.  Banks  tried  to  dissuade  her  daughter 
from  undertaking  the  long  trip,  but  the  girl  was  ob 
stinate.  Her  mother  then  flatly  refused  to  accom 
pany  her,  complaining  of  her  head  and  heart.  In 
the  end  the  elder  lady  decided  to  accept  Mrs.  Crow's 
invitation  to  remain  at  the  house  until  Elsie's  return. 

"I  shall  bring  Rosalie  back  with  me,  mother,"  said 
Elsie  as  she  prepared  to  drive  away.  Mrs.  Banks, 
frail  and  wan,  bowed  her  head  listlessly  and  turned 
to  follow  her  hostess  indoors.  With  Roscoe  in  the 
seat  with  the  driver,  the  carriage  started  briskly  off 
down  the  shady  street,  headed  for  the  ferry  road  and 
Bonner  Place. 

To  return  to  Anderson  Crow  and  his  precipitancy. 
Just  as  the  lodge  keeper  had  said,  the  marshal,  afoot 
and  dusty,  descended  upon  Mr.  Barnes  without  cere 
mony.  The  great  lawyer  was  strolling  about  the 
grounds  when  his  old  enemy  arrived.  He  recognised 
the  odd  figure  as  it  approached  among  the  trees. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Crow!"  he  called  cheerily.  "Are  you 
going  to  arrest  me  again?"  He  advanced  to  shake 
hands. 


Elsie  Banks  Returns 


325 


"Yes,  sir;  you  are  my  prisoner,"  said  Anderson, 
panting,  but  stern.  "I  know  you,  Mr.  Barnes.  It 
won't  do  you  any  good  to  deny  it." 

"Come  in  and  sit  down.  You  look  tired,"  said 
Barnes  genially,  regarding  his  words  as  a  jest;  but 
Anderson  proudly  stood  his  ground. 

"You  can't  come  any  game  with  me.  It  won't  do 
you  no  good  to  be  perlite,  my  man.  This  time  you 
don't  git  away." 


"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  in  earnest?"  cried 
Barnes. 

"I  never  joke  when  on  duty.  Come  along  with  me. 
You  c'n  talk  afterward.  Your  hirelin'  is  in  jail  an' 
he  c'n  identify  you;  so  don't  resist." 

"Wait  a  moment,  sir.     What  is  the  charge?" 


326       The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"I  don't  know  yet.  You  know  better'n  I  do  what 
it  is." 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Crow.  You  arrested  me  the  first 
time  I  ever  saw  you,  and  now  you  yank  me  up  again, 
after  all  these  years.  Haven't  you  anything  else  to 
do  but  arrest  me  by  mistake?  Is  that  your  only  oc 
cupation?" 

Anderson  sputtered  indignantly.  Driven  to  it,  he 
informed  John  Barnes  that  he  was  charged  with  kid 
naping,  attempted  murder,  polygamy,  child  deser 
tion,  and  nearly  everything  else  under  the  sun. 
Barnes,  at  first  indignant,  finally  broke  into  a  hearty 
laugh.  He  magnanimously  agreed  to  accompany  his 
captor  to  Tinkletown.  Not  only  that,  but  he  pro 
vided  the  means  of  transportation.  To  the  intense 
dismay  of  the  servants,  he  merrily  departed  with  Mr. 
Crow,  a  prisoner  operating  his  own  patrol  wagon. 
The  two  were  smoking  the  captive's  best  cigars. 

"It's  mighty  nice  of  you,  Mr.  Barnes,  to  let  us  use 
your  autermobile,"  said  Anderson,  benignly  puff 
ing  away  as  they  bowled  off  through  the  dust.  "It 
would  'a'  been  a  long  walk.  I'll  speak  a  good  word 
fer  you  fer  this." 

"Don't  mention  it,  old  chap.  I  rather  enjoy  it.  It's 
been  uncommonly  dull  up  here.  I  did  not  get  away  as 
soon  as  I  expected,  you  see.  So  I  am  charged  with 
being  Rosalie's  father,  eh?  And  deserting  her?  And 
kidnaping  her?  By  Jove,  I  ought  to  be  hung  for 
all  this!" 

"  'Tain't  nothin'  to  laugh  at,  my  friend.  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  I  was  onto  you  the  day 


Elsie  Banks  Returns 


327 
What 


you  stopped  me  in  the  road  an'  ast  about  her. 
a  fool  you  was.     Reg'lar  dead  give-away." 

"See  here,  Mr.  Crow,  I  don't  like  to  upset  your  hopes 
and  calculations,"  said 
Barnes  soberly.  "I 
did  that  once  before, 
you  remember.  That 
was  years  ago.  You 
were  wrong  then, 
and  you  are  wrong 
now.  Shall  I  tell  you 
why  I  am  interested 
in  this  pretty  waif  of 
yours?" 

"It  ain't  necessary," 
protested  the  mar 
shal. 

"I'll  tell  you  just  the 
same.  My  son  met 
her  in  New  York 
while  he  was  at 
school.  He  heard 
her  story  from  mut 
ual  friends  and  re 
peated  it  to  me.  I 
was  naturally  inter 
ested,  and  questioned 
you.  He  said  she 
was  very  pretty. 
That  is  the  whole 
story,  my  dear  sir." 


328        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"That's  all  very  purty,  but  how  about  the  B  in 
your  hat?" 

"I  don't  understand.  Oh,  you  mean  the  political 
bee?" 

"Politics,  your  granny!  I  mean  the  'nitial  that 
Briggs  saw.  No;  hold  on!  Don't  answer.  Don't 
say  anything  that'll  incriminate  yourself." 

"I  never  had  an  initial  in  my  hat,  and  I  don't  know 
Briggs.  Mr.  Crow,  you  are  as  crazy  as  a  loon."  He 
prepared  to  bring  the  machine  to  a  standstill.  "I'm 
going  home.  You  can  ride  back  with  me  or  get  out 
and  walk  on,  just  as  you  please." 

"Hold  on !  Don't  do  that !  I'll  see  that  you're  paid 
fer  the  use  of  the  machine.  Besides,  consarn  ye, 
you're  my  prisoner."  This  was  too  much  for  Barnes. 
He  laughed  long  and  loud,  and  he  did  not  turn  back. 

Just  beyond  the  ferry  they  turned  aside  to  permit 
a  carriage  to  pass.  A  boy  on  the  box  with  the  driver 
shouted  frantically  after  them,  and  Anderson  tried 
to  stop  the  machine  himself. 

"Stop  her!"  he  cried;  "that's  Roscoe,  my  boy. 
Hold  on !  Who's  that  with  him  ?  Why,  by  cracky, 
it's  Miss  Banks !  Gee  whiz,  has  she  come  back  here 
to  teach  again?  Whoa!  Turn  her  around,  Mr. 
Barnes.  They  are  motionin'  fer  us  to  come  back. 
'Pears  to  be  important,  too." 

Barnes  obligingly  turned  around  and  ran  back  to 
where  the  carriage  was  standing.  An  hour  later  the 
automobile  rolled  into  the  driveway  at  Bonner  Place, 
and  Anderson  Crow?  a  glorious  triumph  in  his  face, 
handed  Miss  Banks  from  the  tonneau  and  into  the 


Elsie  Banks  Returns  329 

arms  of  Rosalie  Gray,  who  at  first  had  mistaken  the 
automobile  for  another.  Pompous  to  the  point  of 
explosion,  Anderson  waved  his  hand  to  the  party 
assembled  on  the  veranda,  strolled  around  to  Mr. 
Barnes's  seat  and  acquired  a  light  for  his  cigar  with 
a  nonchalance  that  almost  overcame  his  one-time 
prisoner,  and  then  said,  apparently  to  the  whole 
world,  for  he  addressed  no  one  in  particular: 

"I  knowed  I  could  solve  the  blamed  thing  if  they'd 
jest  give  me  time." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

The  Story  is  Told 

ELSIE  BANKS  had  a  small  and  select  audience  in  Mrs. 
Bonner's  room  upstairs.  She  had  come  from  New 
York — or  from  California,  strictly  speaking — to  fur 
nish  the  narrative  which  was  to  set  Rosalie  Gray's 
mind  at  rest  forever-more.  It  was  not  a  pleasant 
task;  it  was  not  an  easy  sacrifice  for  this  spirited  girl 
who  had  known  luxury  all  her  life.  Her  spellbound 
hearers  -were  Mrs.  Bonner  and  Edith,  Wicker  Bon- 
ner,  Anderson  Crow, 'Rosalie,  and  John  E.  Barnes, 
who,  far  from  being  a  captive  of  the  law,  was  now 
Miss  Gray's  attorney,  retained  some  hours  before  by 
his  former  captor. 

"I  discharge  you,  sir,"  Anderson  had  said,  after 
hearing  Miss  Bank's  statement  in  the  roadway. 
"You  are  no  longer  a  prisoner.  Have  you  anything 
to  say,  sir?" 

"Nothing,  Mr.  Crow,  except  to  offer  my  legal  ser 
vices  to  you  and  your  ward  in  this  extraordinary  mat 
ter.  Put  the  matter  in  my  hands,  sir,  and  she  shall 
soon  come  into  her  own,  thanks  to  this  young  lady. 
I  may  add  that,  as  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  soliciting 
clients,  it  is  not  my  intention  in  this  instance  to  exact 
a  fee  from  your  ward.  My  services  are  quite  free, 
given  in  return,  Mr.  Crow,  for  the  magnanimous  way 
in  which  you  have  taken  me  into  your  confidence  ever 


The  Story  is  Told  331 

since  I  have  known  you.  It  is  an  honour  to  have  been 
arrested  by  you;  truthfully  it  is  no  disgrace." 

In  the  privacy  of  Mrs.  Bonner's  sitting-room,  Elsie 
Banks,  dry-eyed  and  bitter,  told  the  story  of  her  life. 
I  cannot  tell  it  as  she  did,  for  she  was  able  to  bring 
tears  to  the  eyes  of  her  listeners.  It  is  only  for  me  to 
relate  the  bare  facts,  putting  them  into  her  words 
as  closely  as  possible.  Rosalie  Gray,  faint  with  aston 
ishment  and  incredulity,  a  lump  in  her  throat  that 
would  not  go  down,  and  tears  in  her  eyes,  leaned  back 
in  an  easy-chair  and  watched  her  unhappy  friend. 

"I  shall  provide  Mr.  Barnes  with  proof  of  every 
thing  I  say,"  said  Miss  Banks.  "There  can  be  no 
difficulty,  Rosalie  dear,  in  confirming  all  that  I  have  to 
tell.  If  you  will  permit  me  to  relate  the  story  without 
interruption  and  afterward  let  me  go  my  way  without 
either  pity  or  contempt,  I  shall  be,  oh,  so  grateful  to 
you  all — especially  to  you,  dear  Rosalie.  Believe  me 
I  love  you  with  my  whole  soul. 

"I  have  come  to  you  voluntarily,  and  my  mother, 
who  is  in  Tinkletown,  in  resigning  herself  to  the  calls 
of  conscience,  is  now  happier  than  she  has  ever  been 
before.  A  more  powerful  influence  than  her  own  will 
or  her  own  honour,  an  influence  that  wras  evil  to  the 
core,  inspired  her  to  countenance  this  awful  wrong. 
It  also  checkmated  every  good  impulse  she  may  have 
had  to  undo  it  in  after  years.  That  influence  came 
from  Oswald  Banks,  a  base  monster  to  whom  my 
mother  was  married  when  I  was  a  year  old.  My 
mother  was  the  daughter  of  Lord  Abbott  Brace,  but 
married  my  own  father,  George  Stuart,  who  was  a 


332        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

brilliant  but  radical  newspaper  writer  in  London, 
against  her  father's  wish.  For  this  he  cast  her  off 
and  disinherited  her.  Grandfather  hated  him  and  his 
views,  and  he  could  not  forgive  my  mofher  even  after 
my  father  died,  which  was  two  years  after  their  mar 
riage. 

"Lord  Richard  Brace,  my  mother's  only  brother, 

married  the  daughter  of  the  Duchess  of  B .  You, 

Rosalie,  are  Lady  Rosalie  Brace  of  Brace  Hall, 
W — shire,  England,  the  true  granddaughter  of  Gen 
eral  Lord  Abbott  Brace,  one  of  the  noblest  and  rich 
est  men  of  his  day.  Please  let  me  go  on;  I  cannot  en 
dure  the  interruptions.  The  absolute,  unalterable 
proof  of  what  I  say  shall  be  established  through  the 
confession  of  my  own  mother,  in  whose  possession 
lies  every  document  necessary  to  give  back  to  you  that 
which  she  would  have  given  to  me. 

"Your  mother  died  a  few  weeks  after  you  were  born, 
and  Sir  Richard,  who  loved  my  mother  in  the  face 
of  his  father's  displeasure,  placed  you  in  her  care, 
while  he  rushed  off,  heart-broken,  to  find  solace  in 
Egypt.  It  is  said  that  he  hated  you  because  you  were 
the  cause  of  her  death.  On  the  day  after  your  birth, 
old  Lord  Brace  changed  his  will  and  bequeathed  a 
vast  amount  of  unentailed  property  to  you,  to  be  held 
in  trust  by  your  father  until  you  were  twenty-one  years 
of  age.  I  was  almost  two  years  old  at  the  time,  and 
the  old  man,  unexpectedly  compassionate,  inserted  a 
provision  which,  in  the  event  that  you  were  to  die  be 
fore  that  time,  gave  all  this  money  to  me  on  my 
twenty-first  birthday.  The  interest  on  this  money, 


The  Story  is  Told  333 

amounting  to  five  thousand  pounds  annually,  was  to 
go  to  you  regularly,  in  one  case,  or  to  me,  in  the  other. 
Oswald  Banks  was  an  American,  whom  my  mother 
had  met  in  London  several  years  prior  to  her  first  mar 
riage.  He  was  the  London  representative  of  a  big 
Pennsylvania  manufacturing  concern.  He  was  ambi 
tious,  unscrupulous  and  clever  beyond  conception.  He 
still  is  all  of  these  and  more,  for  he  is  now  a  coward. 

"Well,  it  was  he  who  concocted  the  diabolical  scheme 
to  one  day  get  possession  of  your  inheritance.  He 
coerced  my  poor  mother  into  acquiescense,  and  she  be 
came  his  wretched  tool  instead  of  an  honoured  wife 
and  helpmate.  One  night,  when  you  were  three  weeks 
old,  the  house  in  which  we  lived  was  burned  to  the 
ground,  the  inmates  narrowly  escaping.  So  narrow 
was  the  escape,  in  fact,  that  you  were  said  to  have  been 
left  behind  in  the  confusion,  and  the  world  was  told, 
the  next  day,  that  the  granddaughter  of  Lord  Brace 
had  been  destroyed  by  the  flames. 

"The  truth,  however,  was  not  told.  My  stepfather 
did  not  dare  to  go  so  far  as  to  kill  you.  It  was  he 
who  caused  the  fire,  but  he  had  you  removed  to  a 
small  hotel  in  another  part  of  the  city  some  hours 
earlier,  secretly,  of  course,  but  in  charge  of  a  trusted 
maid.  My  mother  was  responsible  for  this.  She 
would  not  listen  to  his  awful  plan  to  leave  you  in  the 
house.  But  you  might  just  as  well  have  died.  No  one 
was  the  wiser  and  you  were  given  up  as  lost.  A  week 
later,  my  mother  and  Mr.  Banks  started  for  America. 
You  and  I  were  with  them,  but  you  went  as  the  daugh 
ter  of  a  maid-servant — Ellen  Hayes. 


334        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"This  is  the  story  as  my  mother  has  told  it  to  me 
after  all  these  years.  My  stepfather's  plan,  of  course, 
was  to  place  you  where  you  could  never  be  found,  and 
then  to  see  to  it  that  our  grandfather  did  not  succeed 
in  changing  his  will.  Moreover,  he  was  bound  and 
determined  that  he  himself  should  be  named  as  trus 
tee — when  the  fortune  came  over  at  Lord  Brace's 
death.  That  part  of  it  turned  out  precisely  as  he  had 
calculated.  Let  me  go  on  a  few  months  in  advance 
of  my  story.  Lord  Brace  died,  and  the  will  was  prop 
erly  probated  and  the  provisions  carried  out.  Brace 
Hall  and  the  estates  went  to  your  father  and  the  be 
quest  came  to  me,  for  you  were  considered  dead.  My 
stepfather  was  made  trustee.  He  gave  bond  in  Eng 
land  and  America,  I  believe.  In  any  event,  the  for 
tune  was  to  be  mine  when  I  reached  the  age  of  twenty- 
one,  but  each  year  the  income,  nearly  twenty-five  thou 
sand  dollars,  was  to  be  paid  to  my  stepfather  as  trus 
tee,  to  be  safely  invested  by  him.  My  mother's  name 
was  not  mentioned  in  the  document,  except  once,  to 
identify  me  as  the  beneficiary.  I  can  only  add  to  this 
phase  of  the  hateful  conspiracy,  that  for  nineteen 
years  my  stepfather  received  this  income,  and  that  he 
used  it  to  establish  his  own  fortune.  By  investing 
what  was  supposed  to  be  my  money,  he  has  won  his 
own  way  to  wealth. 

"Mr.  Banks  decided  that  the  operations  were  safest 
from  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  He  and  my  mother  took 
up  their5  residence  in  New  York,  and  it  has  been  their 
home  ever  since.  He  spent  the  first  half  year  after 
your  suspected  death  in  London,  solely  for  the  pur- 


The  Story  is  Told  335 

pose  of  establishing  himself  in  Lord  Brace's  favour. 
Within  a  year  after  the  death  of  Lord  Brace  your 
father  was  killed  by  a  poacher  on  the  estate.  He  had 
but  lately  returned  from  Egypt,  and  was  in  full  con 
trol  of  the  lands  and  property  attached  to  Brace  Hall. 
If  my  stepfather  had  designs  upon  Brace  Hall,  they 
failed,  for  the  lands  and  the  title  went  at  once  to  your 
father's  cousin,  Sir  Harry  Brace,  the  present  lord. 

"So  much  for  the  conditions  in  England  then  and 
now.  I  now  return  to  that  part  of  the  story  which 
most  interests  and  concerns  you.  My  poor  mother 
was  compelled,  within  a  fortnight  after  we  landed  in 
New  York,  to  give  up  the  dangerous  infant  who  was 
always  to  hang  like  a  cloud  between  fortune  and 
honour.  The  maid-servant  was  paid  well  for  her 
silence.  By  the  way,  she  died  mysteriously  soon  after 
coming  to  America,  but  not  before  giving  to  my 
mother  a  signed  paper  setting  forth  clearly  every  de 
tail  in  so  far  as  it  bore  upon  her  connection  with  the 
hateful  transaction.  Conscience  was  forever  at  work 
in  my  mother's  heart;  honour  was  constantly  strug 
gling  to  the  surface,  only  to  be  held  back  by  fear  of 
and  loyalty  to  the  man  she  loved. 

"It  was  decided  that  the  most  humane  way  to  put 
you  out  of  existence  was  to  leave  you  on  the  doorstep 
of  some  kindly  disposed  person,  far  from  New  York. 
My  stepfather  and  my  mother  deliberately  set  forth 
on  this  so-called  mission  of  mercy.  They  came  north, 
and  by  chance,  fell  in  with  a  resident  of  Boggs  City 
while  in  the  station  at  Albany.  They  were  debating 
which  way  to  turn  for  the  next  step.  My  mother  was 


336        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

firm  in  the  resolve  that  you  should  be  left  in  the  care 
of  honest,  reliable,  tender-hearted  people,  who  would 
not  abuse  the  trust  she  was  to  impose.  The  Boggs 
City  man  said  he  had  been  in  Albany  to  see  about  a  bill 
in  the  legislature,  which  was  to  provide  for  the  erec 
tion  of  a  monument  in  Tinkletown — where  a  Revolu 
tionary  battle  had  been  fought.  It  was  he  who  spoke 
of  Anderson  Crow,  and  it  was  his  stories  of  your 
goodness  and  generosity,  Mr.  Crow,  that  caused  them 
to  select  you  as  the  man  who  was  to  have  Rosalie,  and, 
with  her,  the  sum  of  one  thousand  dollars  a  year  for 
your  trouble  and  her  needs. 

"My  mother's  description  of  that  stormy  night  in 
February,  more  than  twenty-one  years  ago,  is  the  most 
pitiful  thing  I  have  ever  listened  to.  Together  they 
made  their  way  to  Tinkletown,  hiring  a  vehicle  in 
Boggs  City  for  the  purpose.  Mr.  Banks  left  the  bas 
ket  on  your  porch  while  mother  stood  far  down  the 
street  and  waited  for  him,  half  frozen  and  heartsick. 
Then  they  hurried  out  of  town  and  were  soon  safely 
on  their  way  to  New  York.  It  was  while  my  step 
father  was  in  London,  later  on,  that  mother  came  up 
to  see  Rosalie  and  make  that  memorable  first  payment 
to  Mr.  Crow.  How  it  went  on  for  years,  you  all 
know.  It  was  my  stepfather's  cleverness  that  made  it 
so  impossible  to  learn  the  source  from  which  the  mys 
terious  money  came. 

"We  travelled  constantly,  always  finding  new  places 
of  interest  in  which  my  mother's  conscience  could  be 
eased  by  contact  with  beauty  and  excitement.  Gradu 
ally  she  became  hardened  to  the  conditions,  for,  after 


The  Story  is  Told  337 

all,  was  it  not  her  own  child  who  was  to  be  enriched 
by  the  theft  and  the  deception  ?  Mr.  Banks  constantly 
forced  that  fact  in  upon  her  mother-love  and  her  van 
ity.  Through  it  all,  however,  you  were  never  neg 
lected  nor  forgotten.  My  mother  had  your  welfare 
always  in  mind.  It  was  she  who  saw  that  you  and  I 
were  placed  at  the  same  school  in  New  York,  and  it 
was  she  who  saw  that  your  training  in  a  way  was  as 
good  as  it  could  possibly  be  without  exciting  risk. 

"Of  course,  I  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  I  was  roll 
ing  in  wealth  and  luxury,  but  not  in  happiness.  In 
stinctively  I  loathed  my  stepfather.  He  was  hard, 
cruel,  unreasonable.  It  was  because  of  him  that  I  left 
school  and  afterward  sought  to  earn  my  own  living. 
You  know,  Rosalie,  how  Tom  Reddon  came  into  my 
life.  He  was  the  son  of  William  Reddon,  my  step 
father's  business  partner,  who  had  charge  of  the  West 
ern  branch  of  the  concern  in  Chicago.  We  lived  in 
Chicago  for  several  years,  establishing  the  business. 
Mr.  Banks  was  until  recently  president  of  the  Banks 
&  Reddon  Iron  Works.  Last  year,  you  doubtless 
know,  the  plant  was  sold  to  the  great  combine  and  the 
old  company  passed  out  of  existence.  This  act  was 
the  result  of  a  demand  from  England  that  the  trust 
under  which  he  served  be  closed  and  struck  from  the 
records.  It  was  his  plan  to  settle  the  matter,  turn  the 
inheritance  over  to  me  according  to  law,  and  then  im 
pose  upon  my  inexperience  for  all  time  to  come.  The 
money,  while  mine  literally,  was  to  be  his  in  point  of 
possession. 

"But  he  had  reckoned  without  the  son  of  his  partner. 


338        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

Tom  Reddon  in  some  way  learned  the  secret,  and  he 
was  compelled  to  admit  the  young  man  into  all  of  his 
plans.  This  came  about  some  three  years  ago,  while 
I  was  in  school.  I  had  known  Tom  Reddon  in  Chi 
cago.  He  won  my  love.  I  cannot  deny  it,  although 
I  despise  him  to-day  more  deeply  than  I  ever  expect 
to  hate  again.  He  was  even  more  despicable  than  my 
stepfather.  Without  the  faintest  touch  of  pity,  he  set 
about  to  obliterate  every  chance  Rosalie  could  have 
had  for  restitution.  Time  began  to  prove  to  me  that 
he  was  not  the  man  I  thought  him  to  be.  His  nature 
revealed  itself;  and  I  found  I  could  not  marry  him. 
Besides,  my  mother  was  beginning  to  repent.  She 
awoke  from  her  stupor  of  indifference  and  strove  in 
every  way  to  circumvent  the  plot  of  the  two  conspira 
tors,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned.  The  strain  told 
on  her  at  last,  and  we  went  to  California  soon  after 
my  ridiculous  flight  from  Tinkletown  last  winter.  It 
was  not  until  after  that  adventure  that  I  began  to  see. 
deep  into  the  wretched  soul  of  Tom  Reddon. 

"Then  came  the  most  villainous  part  of  the  whole 
conspiracy.  Reddon,  knowing  full  well  that  exposure 
was  possible  at  any  time,  urged  my  stepfather  to  have 
you  kidnaped  and  hurried  off  to  some  part  of  the 
world  where  you  could  never  be  found.  Even  Red 
don  did  not  have  the  courage  to  kill  you.  Neither 
had  the  heart  to  commit  actual  murder.  It  was  while 
we  were  at  Colonel  Randall's  place  that  the  abduction 
took  place,  you  remember.  Mr.  Banks  and  Tom  Red 
don  had  engaged  their  men  in  New  York.  These  des 
peradoes  came  to  Boggs  City  while  Tom  was  here  to 


The  Story  is  Told  339 

watch  their  operations.  All  the  time  Mr.  Crow  was 
chasing  us  down  Reddon  was  laughing  in  his  sleeve, 
for  he  knew  what  was  to  happen  during  the  marshal's 
absence.  You  know  how  successfully  he  managed  the 
job.  It  was  my  stepfather's  fault  that  it  did  not  suc 
ceed. 

"My  mother,  down  in  New  York,  driven  to  the  last 
extreme,  had  finally  turned  on  him  and  demanded  that 
he  make  restitution  to  Rosalie  Gray,  as  we  had  come 
to  know  her.  Of  course,  there  was  a  scene  and  almost 
a  catastrophe.  He  was  so  worried  over  the  position 
she  was  taking,  that  he  failed  to  carry  out  his  part  of 
the  plans,  which  were  to  banish  Rosalie  forever  from 
this  country.  You  were  to  have  been  taken  to  Paris, 
dear,  and  kept  forever  in  one  of  those  awful  sani- 
toriums.  They  are  worse  than  the  grave.  In  the 
meantime,  the  delay  gave  Mr.  Bonner  a  chance  to 
rescue  you  from  the  kidnapers. 

"Shortly  after  reaching  New  York  I  quarrelled  with 
Thomas  Reddon,  and  my  mother  and  I  fled  to  Cali 
fornia.  He  followed  us  and  sought  a  reconciliation. 
I  loathed  him  so  much  by  this  time,  that  I  appealed 
to  my  mother.  It  was  then  that  she  told  me  this  miser 
able  story,  and  that  is  why  we  are  in  Tinkletown  to 
day.  We  learned  in  some  way  of  the  plot  to  kidnap 
you  and  to  place  you  where  you  could  not  be  found. 
The  inhuman  scheme  of  my  stepfather  and  his  adviser 
was  to  have  my  mother  declared  insane  and  confined  in 
an  asylum,  where  her  truthful  utterances  could  never 
be  heard  by  the  world,  or  if  they  were,  as  the  ravings 
of  a  mad  woman. 


34°        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"The  day  that  we  reached  New  York  my  mother 
placed  the  documents  and  every  particle  of  proof  in 
her  possession  in  the  hands  of  the  British  Consul. 
The  story  was  told  to  him  and  also  to  certain  attor 
neys.  A  member  of  his  firm  visited  my  stepfather  and 
confronted  him  with  the  charges.  That  very  night 
Mr.  Banks  disappeared,  leaving  behind  him  a  note,  in 
which  he  said  we  should  never  see  his  face  again. 
Tom  Reddon  has  gone  to  Europe.  My  mother  and 
I  expect  to  sail  this  week  for  England,  and  I  have 
come  to  ask  Rosalie  to  accompany  us.  I  want  her  to 
stand  at  last  on  the  soil  which  knows  her  to  be  Rosalie 
Brace.  The  fortune  which  was  mine  last  week  is  hers 
to-day.  We  are  not  poor,  Rosalie  dear,  but  we  are 
not  as  rich  as  we  were  when  we  had  all  that  belonged 
to  you." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

Anderson  Crop's  Resignation 

SOME  days  later  Anderson  Crow  returned  to  Tinkle- 
town  from  New  York,  where  he  had  seen  Rosalie  Bon- 
ner  and  her  husband  off  for  England,  accompanied 
by  Mrs.  Banks  and  Elsie,  who  had  taken  passage  on 
the  same  steamer.  He  was  attired  in  a  brand-new  suit 
of  blue  serge,  a  panama  hat,  and  patent-leather  shoes 
which  hurt  his  feet.  Moreover,  he  carried  a  new 
walking  stick  with  a  great  gold  head  and  there  was  a 
huge  pearl  scarf-pin  in  his  necktie  Besides  all  this, 
his  hair  and  beard  had  been  trimmed  to  perfection  by 
a  Holland  House  barber.  Every  morning  his  wife 
was  obliged  to  run  a  flatiron  over  his  trousers  to  per 
petuate  the  crease.  Altogether  Anderson  was  a  revela 
tion  not  only  to  his  family  and  to  the  town  at  large, 
but  to  himself  as  well.  He  fairly  staggered  every 
time  he  got  a  glimpse  of  himself  in  the  shop  windows. 

All  day  long  he  strolled  about  the  street,  from  store 
to  store,  or  leaned  imposingly  against  every  post  that 
presented  itself  conveniently.  Naturally  he  was  the 
talk  of  the  town. 

"Gee-mi-nently!"  ejaculated  Alf  Reesling,  catching 
sight  of  him  late  in  the  day.  "Is  that  the  president?" 

"It's  Anderson  Crow,"  explained  Blootch  Peabody. 

"Who's  dead?"  demanded  Alf. 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 


"Why,  whose  clothes  is  he  wearin'?"  pursued  Alf, 
utterly  overcome  by  the  picture. 

"You'd  better  not  let  him  hear  you  say  that,"  cau 
tioned  Isaac  Porter.  "He  got  'em  in  New  York.  He 
says  young  Mr.  Bonner  give  'em  to  him  fer  a  weddin' 
present.  Rosalie  give  him  a  pearl  dingus  to  wear  in 
his  cravat,  an'  derned  ef  he  don't  have  to  wear  a  collar 
all  the  time  now.  That  lawyer  Barnes  give  him  the 
cane.  Gee  whiz!  he  looks  like  a  king!  don't  he?" 

At  that  moment  Anderson  approached  the  group  in 
front  of  Lamson's  store.  He  walked  with  a  stateli- 
ness  that  seemed  to  signify  pain  in  his  lower  extremi 
ties  more  than  it  did  dignity  higher  up. 

"How  fer  out  do  you  reckon  they  are  by  this  time, 
Blootch?"  he  asked  earnestly. 

"  'Bout  ten  miles  further  than  when  you  asked  while 
ago,"  responded  Blootch,  consulting  his  watch. 

"Well,  that  ought  to  get  'em  to  Liverpool  sometime 
soon  then.  They  took  a  powerful  fast  ship.  Makes 
it  in  less  'n  six  days,  they  say.  Let's  see.  They  sailed 
day  before  yesterday.  They  must  be  out  sight  o'  land 
by  this  time." 

"Yes,  unless  they're  passin'  some  islands,"  agreed 
Blootch. 

"Thunderation !  What  air  you  talkin'  about?" 
said  Anderson  scornfully.  "Cuby  an'  Forty  Rico's 
been  passed  long  ago.  Them  islands  ain't  far  from 
Boston.  Don't  you  remember  how  skeered  the  Bos 
ton  people  were  durin'  the  war  with  Spain?  Feared 
the  Spanish  shells  might  go  a  little  high  an'  smash  up 
the  town  ?  Islands  nothin' !  They've  got  away  out 


Anderson  Crow's  Resignation          343 

into  deep  water  by  this  time,  boys,  'y  Gosh,  I'm  anx 
ious  about  Rosalie.  S'posin'  that  derned  boat  struck 
a  rock  er  upset  er  somethin' !  They  never  could  swim 
ashore." 

"Oh,  there's  no  danger,  Anderson,"  said  Mr.  Lam- 
son.  "Those  boats  are  perfectly  safe.  I  suppose 
they're  going  to  telegraph  you  when  they  land." 

"No,  they're  goin'  to  cable,  Wick  says.  Doggone, 
I'm  glad  it's  all  settled.  You  don't  know  how  hard 
I've  worked  all  these  years  to  find  out  who  her 
parents  was.  Course  I  knowed  they  were  foreigners 
all  the  time,  but  Rosalie  never  had  no  brogue,  so  you 
c'n  see  how  I  was  threw  off  the  track.  She  talked  jest 
as  good  American  as  we  do.  I  was  mighty  glad  when 
I  finally  run  Miss  Banks  to  earth."  The  crowd  was 
in  no  position  to  argue  the  point  with  him.  "That 
Miss  Banks  is  a  fine  girl,  boys.  She  done  the  right 
thing.  An'  so  did  my  Rosalie — I  mean  Lady  Rosalie. 
She  made  Elsie  keep  some  of  the  money.  Mr.  Barnes 
is  goin'  to  England  next  week  to  help  settle  the  mat 
ter  for  Lady  Rosalie.  He  says  she's  got  nearly  a  mil 
lion  dollars  tied  up  some'eres.  It's  easy  sailin',  though, 
'cause  Mrs.  Banks  says  so.  Did  you  hear  what 
Rosalie  said  when  she  got  convinced  about  bein'  an 
English  lady?" 

"No;  what   did  she  say?" 

"She  jest  stuck  up  that  derned  little  nose  o'  hern  an' 
said:  'I  am  an  American  as  long  as  I  live.'  ' 

"Hooray!"  shouted  Alf  Reesling,  throwing  Isaac 
Porter's  new  hat  into  the  air.  The  crowd  joined  in 
the  cheering. 


344        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

"Did  I  ever  tell  you  how  I  knowed  all  along  that  it 
was  a  man  who  left  Rosalie  on  the  porch?"  asked  An 
derson. 

"Why,  you  allus  told  me  it  was  a  woman,"  said  Alf. 
"You  accused  me  of  bein'  her." 

"Shucks !  Woman  nothin' !  I  knowed  it  was  a  man, 
Here's  somethin'  you  don't  know,  Alf.  I  sized  up  the 
foot-prints  on  my  front  steps  jest  after  she — I  mean 
he — dropped  the  basket.  The  toes  turned  outward, 
plain  as  day,  right  there  in  the  snow."  He  paused  to 
let  the  statement  settle  in  their  puzzled  brains. 
"Don't  you  know  that  one  hunderd  percent  of  the 
women  turn  their  toes  in  when  they  go  upstairs  ?  To 
keep  from  hookin'  into  their  skirts?  Thunder,  you 
oughter  of  thought  of  that,  too !" 

Some  one  had  posted  Anderson  on  this  peculiarly 
feminine  trait,  and  he  was  making  the  best  of  it.  In 
cidentally,  it  may  be  said  that  every  man  in  Tinkle- 
town  took  personal  observations  in  order  to  satisfy 
himself. 

"Any  one  seen  Pastor  MacFarlane?"  went  on  An 
derson.  "Wick  Bonner  give  me  a  hunderd  dollar 
bill  to  give  him  fer  performin'  the  ceremony  up  to 
our  house  that  night.  G'way,  Ed  Higgins !  I'm 
not  goin'  'round  showin'  that  bill  to  people.  If  rob 
bers  got  onto  the  fact  I  have  it,  they'd  probably  try  to 
steal  it.  I  don't  keer  if  you  ain't  seen  that  much 
money  in  one  piece.  That's  none  of  my  lookout. 
Say,  are  you  comin'  to  the  town  meetin'  to-night?" 

They  were  all  at  the  meeting  of  the  town  board  that 
night.  It  was  held,  as  usual,  in  Odd  Fellows'  Hall, 


Anderson  Crow's  Resignation          345 

above  Peterson's  dry-goods  store,  and  there  was  not 
so  much  as  standing  room  in  the  place  when  the  clerk 
read  the  minutes  of  the  last  meeting.  Word  had  gone 
forth  that  something  unusual  was  to  happen.  It  was 
not  idle  rumour,  for  soon  after  the  session  began, 
Anderson  Crow  arose  to  address  the  board. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  his  voice  trembling  with  emo 
tion,  "I  have  come  before  you  as  I  notified  you  I 
would.  I  hereby  tender  my  resignation  as  marshal 
of  Tinkletown,  street  commissioner  and  chief  of  the 
fire  department — an'  any  other  job  I  may  have  that 
has  slipped  my  mind.  I  now  suggest  that  you  ap- 
p'int  Mr.  Ed  Higgins  in  my  place.  He  has  wanted 
the  job  fer  some  time,  an'  says  it  won't  interfere  with 
his  business  any  more  than  it  did  with  mine.  I  have 
worked  hard  all  these  years  an'  I  feel  that  I  ought  to 
have  a  rest.  Besides,  it  has  got  to  be  so  that  thieves 
an'  other  criminals  won't  visit  Tinkletown  on  account 
o'  me,  an'  I  think  the  town  is  bein'  held  back  consider 
able  in  that  way.  What's  the  use  havin'  a  marshal 
an'  a  jail  ef  nobody  comes  here  to  commit  crimes? 
They  have  to  commit  'em  in  New  York  City  er  Chi 
cago  nowadays,  jest  because  it's  safer  there  than  it  is 
here.  Look  at  this  last  case  I  had.  Wasn't  that  ar 
ranged  in  New  York?  Well,  it  shouldn't  be  that  way. 
Even  the  train  robbers  put  up  their  job  in  New  York. 
I  feel  that  the  best  interests  of  the  town  would  be 
served  ef  I  resign  an'  give  the  criminals  a  chance. 
You  all  know  Ed  Higgins.  He  will  ketch  'em  if  any 
body  kin.  I  move  that  he  be  app'inted." 

The  motion  prevailed,  as  did  the  vote  of  thanks, 


346        The  Daughter  of  Anderson  Crow 

which  was  vociferously  called  for  in  behalf  of  An 
derson  Crow. 

"You  honour  me,"  said  the  ex-marshal,  when  the 
"ayes"  died  away.  "I  promise  to  help  Marshal  Hig- 
gins  in  ever'  way  possible.  I'll  tell  him  jest  what  to 
do  in  everything.  I  wish  to  say  that  I  am  not  goin' 
out  of  the  detective  business,  however.  I'm  goin'  to 
open  an  agency  of  my  own  here.  All  sorts  of  detec 
tive  business  will  be  done  at  reasonable  prices.  I  had 
these  cards  printed  at  the  Banner  office  to-day,  an' 
Mr.  Squires  is  goin'  to  run  an  ad.  fer  me  fer  a  year  in 
the  paper." 

He  proudly  handed  a  card  to  the  president  of  the 
board  and  then  told  the  crowd  that  each  person  pres 
ent  could  have  one  by  applying  to  his  son  Roscoe, 
who  would  be  waiting  in  the  hallway  after  the  meet 
ing.  The  card  read : 


"Anderson   Crow,   Detective. 
All  kinds  of  cases  Taken  and  Satisfaction 

Guaranteed. 
Berth  mysteries  a  Specialty." 


Mrs.  Bonner,  upon  hearing  of  his  resignation  the 
next  day,  just  as  she  was  leaving  for  Boston,  drily 
remarked  to  the  Congressman: 

"I  still  maintain  that  Anderson  Crow  is  utterly  im 
possible." 

No  doubt  the  entire  world,  aside  from  the  village 
of  Tinkletown,  agrees  with  her  in  that  opinion. 

The  End 


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